Short Change Hero
by Rocketlord6485
Summary: Hero or criminal? Two years after the fall of the Rocket Empire, Giovanni isn't sure which category he fits into anymore. He just wants to protect those closest to him—by any means. Now his morality will truly be called into question as he and his biker gang are enlisted by Team Rocket to help face an unprecedented threat in the Sinnoh Region. Vol. III of the Giovanni Chronicles.
1. Picking Up the Pieces

.

.

 **Disclaimer:** Pokémon is a registered property of Nintendo, the Pokémon Company, and GameFreak. This work respectfully uses the world and characters of the Pokémon series for the sake of harmless, profitless fanfiction. Please support the official releases of the Pokémon franchise.

* * *

 **Short Change Hero**

 **Chapter 1: Picking Up the Pieces**

 _Dual City ruins, three weeks after the fall of the Rocket Empire..._

An impatient wind blew down a blackened road and encircled a perfectly round crevice of building debris, white as snow. This shining circle sat at the center of a city in ashes; softly glowing embers scattered among a sea of smoking darkness. Mourners, human and Pokémon alike, gathered at that center of this massive graveyard blanketed in residue. Their watery eyes honed in on the lone, uniformed figure approaching the podium at the charred fringe of the road.

Newly elected Pokémon League President Shivu stood before the podium in front of the city hall ruins, taking in his surroundings with a hushed gasp; his gaze touched across a black funeral wreath that framed a series of large portraits commemorating the souls lost on that fatal day three months prior. Finally, he glanced down at the crumpled memorial speech in his trembling hands, choking up just slightly when he began to voice what he'd written.

"Justice was needed," he managed, his voice a scratch against the dismal silence. Feeling the countless gazes on him, he massaged his throat and carried on. "It was everything that Kanto and Johto deserved. And we paid the price for simply wanting it."

Silence persisted through the crowd, either out of respect or out of an emotion they all shared but no one among them could quite place; only the faintest sniffles of broken hearts seemed to penetrate the extended pause. It wasn't just civilians and press members in mourning either. Pokémon League representatives and Military Government officials, despite the commonly held opinion of them lately, stood with their heads bowed, perhaps to hide their shame. Shivu couldn't malign them. Some scars were harder to see than others, and he carried his the same as the rest of them.

Legendaries, how did they even get to this point? How could things have gone so wrong so quickly and easily?

The idle president hesitated briefly, dismissing the distracting thought before continuing. "Metsuma Rocket was supposed to be our hero," he read on, the name tasting acidic in his mouth. "But then… we saw his true colors. And only minutes later did Dual City crumble before our eyes, bringing down with it countless, innocent lives. And with them died the very heart of our very legislative body, the same body my colleagues and I were sworn to uphold before I was elected to the Pokémon Association. That being said, I will not let it happen again. I swear I will not allow another reprobate like Metsuma Rocket to slither into power."

Harsher. Their gazes suddenly felt harsher on him. If it wasn't brought on by his desperate attempts to reassure them, it was almost certainly brought on by simply mentioning the name. _His_ name. The devil's name. The name of the lunatic who had reduced their government to cinders, more for a chuckle than to make a point. Now to so much as speak his name was to invite a curse or a hex. It was just an unwritten rule now.

Even the image of him—no, even the thought—made Shivu boil. He fought it back, composing himself, unclenching his fingers before they could punch holes into his speech. He shuffled the notes together, anxious to finish up and get down from the podium as soon as possible before a slew of angry curses could escape him and get the crowd excited. Tempting though it was, he couldn't allow it. He couldn't let himself or any of them stoop to the madman's level of rabid lunacy and unwittingly carry out his twisted legacy.

"We believed in… that man," he pressed on, choosing not to speak the name this time. "That was our mistake. That was our ministry's death knell." The words caught in his throat, drowning beneath angry sobs wracking to be free. He hastily stuffed the speech into his breast pocket and, in a fleeting rasp, finished with the overdue words they all longed to voice themselves.

"May he burn in hell."

* * *

 _Mountains west of Celestic Town, two years later..._

Aurora slowly opened her eyes and gazed up at the silver sky. A foreboding wind danced through her fur, as if to jostle her into retreat, yet she stood immovable like a statue on the cliff's edge. Mount Coronet, though vast and lofty, was an extension of herself. Her master had seen to that. She'd made it easy for him, in all fairness, just by simply being a Lucario. Having been born naturally more attuned to the Aura than even the most spiritual humans, she had proved herself a quick learner.

And yet today there was something… out of balance. She could feel it tingling through the sensitive appendages dangling behind her ears. It wasn't the shift in the wind though, nor was it the promise of a storm bellowing overhead. No, this was more elusive, more disconnected from Sinnoh's natural grace and beauty than any other rift she'd felt in these sprawling mountains.

Could this have been the disturbance omened by the White Cloaks?

The sun's dying rays caught her eye just long enough before slipping away into the concentration of clouds painting the sky grey. Next came the rain, starting as a trickle and then pouring down in a steady sheet along the alpine landscape. No drop went undetected by her senses. Each struck the hard-packed earth as routinely and boringly as the last, yet the vibrations were an annoyance all the same, masking the movement of the anomaly she swore couldn't have simply been her imagination.

Drawing in a fluid breath, she pawed the base of the ying-yang talisman suspended around her neck, finding her focus somewhere in the rhythmic sound of the sky's natural yield smacking the rocks around her. That familiar rush power snapped through her like a whip, overflowing, trickling from her paw in a shimmering blue haze. She planted her feet firmly on the damp cliffside, squeezing her eyes shut and calling on that same surplus energy to scan the steep landscape below her.

Her mind's eye shot ahead, striking through countless more cliffs and passes until it stopped at a stretch of dirt road snaking through the lower mountain ridges. It must have spanned miles, punching into the backcountry skirting Celestic Town, yet conveniently blanketed under the cover of thick forestation. The trees in its path rippled violently in response, scattering the patches of snow dusting their tops to the wind.

Then she heard it—or felt it, rather. Vibrations. Not the rain this time. Unnatural now, erratic, pounding in her limbs the more ground she probed. She clenched the talisman a little harder to squeeze out a better look. Fresh tire tracks not yet deluged by the rainfall smeared the muddied road in twin streaks. She'd probed these mountains numerous times and had never known that back road to be traveled, especially not in weather like this. She was closing in now, if nothing else.

She came up upon the vibrations with another gentle push of energy, striking gold. An unusually orderly column of automobiles—large box vans, by the looks—trundled down the bumpy road in a hurry, their bleating engines tearing obnoxiously into her senses. She steadied her focus, trying to make out any distinctive details about the vehicles, trying to get a reading on the humans manning them.

Her visual on the vans became fuzzier the further into the boondocks they drove. She was wasting time, she realized; opening her eyes, she dove from the cliffside without a second thought, landing unharmed on the first of the many treacherous mountain slants barring her from her fleeing targets.

Of course, it wasn't _her_ they were fleeing from, she understood.

The caw of a Spearow flock dragged her gaze to the skies further up ahead, though this didn't break her momentum as she effortlessly weaved and ducked through the landscape's varying obstructions. The Aura was guiding her body, yet her eyes stayed with the flock, observing their perfectly arrowlike formation skimming the treetops. It wasn't like wild Spearows to form up in such a way, let alone fly amid rain and lightning.

Upon closer inspection, she noticed that a Fearow was herding the flock along. No way these were wild Pokémon. They were domesticated, trained, clearly serving as aerial surveillance for the mystery vans peeling away in a frenzy. This was a strategic, coordinated effort—but for what purpose, she wondered?

A heist was the first possibility to cross her mind. There was more of value than simply nature to be found in the deepest crevices of Mount Coronet, after all. She knew it better than most. She also knew what happened to those that dared steal from the Coalition. If this was as she feared, these thieves were already marked for death. And there would be no mercy dispensed if she didn't intercept them first.

She came belting out of the treeline and onto the rutted dirt road before it could melt to mud. She kept her gaze forward as she dashed along it, putting all her energy solely into her leg muscles. She no longer needed her senses to trace the synthetic vibrations and sounds. The trail would bring her to them quickly enough, so long as she didn't slow down. It wasn't so much a race against the clock anymore as it was a race against the White Cloaks.

* * *

Kirby lowered the cowl of his disguise, letting red tendrils fall freely over his shoulders. He pushed the cumbersome strands out of his eyes, just enough to inspect the metal lockbox held firmly in his lap. He was starting to wonder if its contents were really worth all this sweat. He'd pulled off plenty of heists before, but nothing like this. There would be hell to pay if he wasn't compensated at least his own weight in cash.

From the corner of his eyes, his partner, Jax, sat rigid in the driver's seat. The younger man's leather gloves groaned as his grip on the steering wheel tightened. The kid wasn't nervous though. He was anxious, but never nervous. If Kirby knew Jax well, the cocky fool was probably fighting back the itch to howl out and bang on the wheel in triumph. And when he inevitably did, Kirby would have to fight back his own itch to slap the boy silly.

Rain suddenly splattered the windshield in icy pelts as the bumpy, slushing mountain road ahead led them and the rest of their party out of the forest's cover, past marshy, brown slopes void of any human habitation. There must have been another ten or so miles between them and Celestic. And _he_ would be waiting for them there.

Kirby leaned his arm over Jax's, thumbing the windshield wipers for a better vantage. Small patches of dirt-brown scrub dotted the hills the further they strayed from the woodlands, so much so that the road seemed to melt into the identically colored landscape. Mudslides would follow next, slowing them down even more, he reckoned. He considered taking over the wheel, but doing that meant stopping first.

And stopping just wasn't an option.

Pressing the case tighter against his lap, he blew out a miffed gust through his nostrils before briefly glancing skyward. The unmistakable purr of helicopter rotors broke through the clouds, a reassuring sound. He withheld his smile until he had a clear visual on a pair of choppers descending from the overcast to join their Spearow escort. Better late than never, he reasoned.

Lightning streaked in jagged forks across the sky, each bringing with it the war drums of mother nature. The noise set the passengers in back on edge rather obviously. He could feel them squirming against the door panel behind him. They were much like him—older, more experienced, more aware and respectful of the dangers attached to a mercenary's life. Whereas young hotshots like Jax took it as a fun, thrilling game, the rest of them were smart enough to know when to be afraid. It all boiled down to a soldier's sixth sense; and using it, Kirby could tell there was more to this storm than met the eye.

Foolishly taking a hand off the wheel, Jax pulled back his own black hood, revealing a face the was all almond eyes, pearly teeth, and chiseled cheekbones framed by shoulder-length hair, not unlike Kirby's. The kid was just shy of eighteen and for whatever reason thought that made him king of the world. If Kirby had known Jax would turn out this way, he might have thought twice before taking him under his wing.

A carefree sigh escaped teenager's lips, his canines flashing a smile in Kirby's direction. "That hood was suffocating me, I tell ya. Felt like my head was in an oven."

"Eyes on the road," Kirby muttered quietly, lifting a finger to point.

Jax did as he was told—for all of ten seconds, anyway. His eyes flinched from the drenched road again before long, momentarily wandering to the valuable treasure resting in his partner's lap. "Any reason we gotta keep it cased like that?"

Kirby shook his head. "I wasn't given specifics," he answered flatly. "I was only told not to open it under any circumstances."

"I see." With a shrug, Jax turned his head forward again.

"Besides," Kirby continued, if only to satisfy any other lingering curiosities, "it's better we keep it boxed. I don't want to deliver it damaged."

Jax's mouth thinned into a stubborn, pouty line. "Look, I'm not an idiot." His gaze, suddenly solemn, darted to Kirby again to punctuate the point. "I know what he's paying us. You think I'd be stupid enough to let something this valuable slip through our fingers?"

Kirby sighed, rubbing his sore neck. He wasn't in any mood to argue. "Just focus on the road, will you? We can't let this storm slow us—"

The van gave a lurch, silencing him and nearly throwing the case from his lap. He caught it and clutched it to his chest like a life preserver; in this piss-poor economy, it kind of was.

"The hell?" murmured Jax, squinting into the side mirror. "Must have hit a bump or something."

Unconvinced, Kirby twisted in his seat. He knocked on the panel separating them and the men in back. Some moments passed before a reaffirming knock answered back.

"They're fine," chuckled Jax, sounding too sure of himself. "Just look where we are. Did you really expect a smooth ride?"

Before Kirby could shut him up, the van buckled again, more violently this time. The wheel slipped from Jax's grip, nearly sending the van careening off the road and into the ravine adjacent to them. Kirby lunged over his partner to get the car back under control, the tires screeching as he jerked the wheel toward him.

Once they were safely back on course, Jax swatted the older man's hands away. "Alright, I got it! Let go! We're fine!"

"No, we're _not_ fine," Kirby hissed through gnashed teeth, hugging the case tighter. He leaned forward and craned his neck, angling his head to peer out the windshield and ensure Fearow's flock and the choppers were still airborne. He next looked into the passenger mirror to tally the other vans following behind them. All accounted for.

Everything seemed perfectly fine. _That_ was the problem.

Then came a third, much rougher jolt. Kirby was prepared this time, gripping Jax's seat with one hand and clinching the case with the other as they rode out the sharp, rugged turn needed to reclaim the van's balance. Though Jax had reacted in time, that smug, self-assured smile of his was quickly melting away.

Through his mirror, Kirby saw that the other vans hadn't buckled as theirs did. He couldn't make out any bumps or divots in their tracks either. Whatever was happening was happening to their van, and _only_ theirs.

"He said we wouldn't run into problems," uttered Jax, swallowing past a lump. The fear cracking through his voice was palpable now. He was unrecognizable from the cocky, chatty swashbuckler sitting in his place just moments ago.

Even so, Kirby scowled at the stupid statement. "That's why you're not suited for this line of work, Jax. You take everything at face value."

The teenager's fear suddenly morphed into panic, and he fidgeted in his seat. His mouth opened and closed but no words came out.

"We infiltrated their city," Kirby reminded his understudy in a harsh whisper. "Did you really think we'd get away so easily?"

Jax's grip on the wheel was visibly trembling now, and Kirby decided it wasn't best to scare the kid any further. He didn't want to endanger their lives any more than they already were. He needed a sharp pair of eyes on the road and a firm pair of hands on the wheel if they were going to make to Celestic alive.

"Protect the artifact," he decided on a whim, opening the glove compartment in front of him and shoving the lockbox inside. As soon as he closed it, he was already halfway done unbuckling his seat belt. "I'll deal with whatever dead weight we might have picked up."

Jax anxiously nodded as he kept his palms planted on the wheel, though the sweat pouring off his face betrayed any confidence he was trying to muster. Pitying the kid, Kirby gave Jax's shoulder a firm, bolstering squeeze.

"Remember," he whispered. "Eyes on the road. You'll do fine."

Once Jax managed a more convincing nod, Kirby turned in his seat and pried open the door panel behind them. He climbed in back where the other two soldiers were riding, ensconced in shadows. They were still donning their heist disguises, though something wasn't right.

It took him a squinting moment to register one of the two mercenaries lying unconscious on the floor. The other soldier—garbed in red—was kneeling at his side, checking his pulse.

"Damn it," Kirby husked under his breath, moving to crouch down next to the motionless black-cloaked man. "Must have been that last bump that knocked him out."

Across from him, the mercenary in the red cowl gave a nod.

"Figures," Kirby huffed in resignation, glancing around the van's compartment. "I guess there was nothing wrong after all. Kid's never gonna let me hear the end of this." He quickly shrugged off the nagging thought and reached to pull down the unconscious soldier's hood.

The face revealed, however, made his neck hairs stand on end. The mangled profile was black and bloodied with bruises, one lifeless blue eye staring off into nothing. He'd been beaten to death.

"What the—" Kirby jerked away from the body, shooting to his feet. He looked to the other cloaked mercenary. "Who did this? Damn it, why didn't you knock and warn us?"

The operative on his knees merely shrugged his shoulders. Was this some kind of joke, or was he simply in shock?

Annoyed, Kirby shoved the incompetent idiot aside and stomped his way to the back doors of the van. He pushed them open and waved his arms to the driver of the cruiser lumbering behind them. The rainfall made his hand signals difficult to make out at first, but eventually the cloaked driver behind the windshield acknowledged with a nod and reached under his seat to bring up his radio. Remembering his own walkie, Kirby fished out the device from his disguise and adjusted the frequency until the driver's voice was audible.

"What's wrong, sir?"

"We have a man down," Kirby answered sharply. "Did you spot anything hit our van? Did you see anything suspicious at all?"

The driver sounded every bit as floored as Kirby felt. "Heck no. Sure, I can't see squat in this weather, but I think I would have noticed those doors flailing opening."

"Then why is one of my men lying dead on—" His tongue went cold the moment everything clicked into place. The radio fell from his grip as he slowly turned about to face the sole survivor of the supposed ambush. The figure sheathed in red robes was no longer on his knees, now standing proudly over the body between them.

"You're not one of us," Kirby rasped, raising an accusing finger. "You're an impostor!"

The voice beneath the crimson cowl was deep and somehow robotic, yet punctuated with amusement, and rippling. "You don the robes of _my_ people, yet you brand _me_ an impostor?"

Thinking fast, Kirby swiped the radio up off the floor, dangling it in front of him in warning. "Stand down! You're outnumbered! I only need to give the signal and my men will take you out!"

The tall, imposing stranger either didn't hear the threat or didn't care. "Your employer gave you those cloaks, I imagine. Hard to believe he hired common thugs to take on a job so serious. No matter though. He's crossed us for the last time."

Kirby narrowed his eyes, coming to recognize the figure's disquisitive manner of speaking. Their employer had warned them about this very creep. "Brutis," he uttered the name the instant it came to him. "You pestering—"

"It's _Lord_ Brutis," the other calmly corrected. Slowly, he began to close the gap between them in long strides. "And while I forgive you for this little incident, you're still going die for it."

Kirby frantically shuffled backward, bringing the radio to his lips. "Calling all units! We're under atta—"

The sentence went unfinished as Brutis's strong, leathered hand struck forward like a serpent, iron fingers clamping around Kirby's throat. The mercenary fought to budge free, letting the radio clatter somewhere at his feet so that he could put both hands into the effort. It was useless though. Brutis's arms were like immovable steel. Between that and his cold, synthetic dialect, he may as well have been a machine.

He tried to scream for Jax, but the crushing chokehold constricted both voice and air supply, and he started to gag. He didn't even realize he was being hoisted into the air until he glanced down and saw his feet dangling like limp noodles. He squinted into the black depths of his assailant's red cowl, trying to make out a face in the darkness, whether it be a man's face or a machine's.

But he found nothing. Legendaries, these people truly were phantoms.

The van buckled and Kirby's eyes darted left as the cruiser's back doors flung open and closed indecisively from the impact. The van behind them had smacked into their rear and was now right at their bumper; the driver must have caught on to what was happening. The soldier in the passenger seat beside him was now leaning out the window, leveling his rifle for a clear shot at Brutis.

Brutis, amazingly, didn't even turn his head. He released one hand from Kirby's throat while keeping him suspended with the other. The long, red sleeve covering the phantom's unoccupied arm rolled up with a flick of the wrist, revealing some kind of strange contraption strapped around his forearm. By the time Kirby realized it was a wrist cannon, its sleek, silver barrel was already trained at the doors, sparkling with blue energy just aching to burst.

Once it did, it was already over in the time it took Kirby to blink. The back doors of the van had been disintegrated and the cruiser behind them reduced to smoldering cinders and scrap metal, causing the rest of the procession behind it to come screeching to a stop.

He felt their own van slow down next, which must have been Jax reacting to whatever the hell had just happened. Kirby's first instinct was to cry out for his partner to pull over and flee on foot with the artifact, but even if he'd been able to scrimp enough breath to do so, his voice was lost somewhere. He was still trapped in the moment the vehicle behind them suddenly turned to dust, like it was nothing. How had that been possible?

Brutis's other hand returned to Kirby's throat, and the mercenary could feel the heat radiating off the lethal tech just inches from his face. If this was only a modicum of what the Coalition was capable of, how hadn't they wiped out all of Sinnoh yet with this technology? What the hell were these freaks still hiding beneath the ground for? What were they waiting on?

"You're out of your element, mercenary." There was a faint smile in the Red Cloak's distorted voice now—cruel, twisted, mocking. Kirby wouldn't let it be his dying memory though. Even as he felt the life being squeezed out of him, he fought to get out words of his own.

"Why... didn't you just take us out sooner?" he spat, little more than a rasp. "We… we both know you could have."

The phantom's powerful shoulders gave a shrug. "Forgive me. I simply wanted to get the measure of you."

"Well now you have," he sputtered, coming out as more of a gurgling noise. Brutis seemed to have heard it though.

"I have, yes," he replied, almost pityingly. "And I'm disappointed."

* * *

The sound of a neck snapping.

Jax heard it clearly and jerked out of his shock, knowing what had happened, knowing what it meant for him. The mission fell to him now. He slammed hard on the breaks. Hearing a thud in the back, the teenager assessed how much time he had before assailant came to, then scrambled to break free of his seat belt. He ripped open the glove compartment next, swiped the lockbox, and then kicked open his door. He tumbled out of the van on rickety legs, and wasn't sure which direction to go.

The twin helicopters circled the blustery skies above him in wait. He looked back down the road already driven, spotting the surviving three box vans finally managing to circumvent the wreckage of their annihilated associates. They were trundling toward him at full speed, hopefully to back him up against whoever had taken his partner's life.

A caw had him looking up once more. One of the Spearows was descending on his position, presumably to pick up the lockbox and carry it safely back to one of the two choppers. He held it toward the Pokémon, but a sound like that of a high-pitched singing twisted him sharply on his heel, just in time to witness a pillar of blue energy burst from the van's rear.

Blue smoke poured out of the gaping hole, followed by the silhouette of his partner's killer. The other vans, meanwhile, were closing in at full tilt in an attempt to run him down. The red phantom afforded them no such opportunity and outstretched his weaponized arm without looking their way, disintegrating each of them in rapid succession.

Jax felt his stomach drop. He might have vomited, passed out even; but the Spearow flailing behind him brought him to and he quickly spun around to hand off the lockbox.

"Evening, my good man," came the assailant's cold, empty greeting from behind, sending his pulse into a full gallop. "I'll be taking that back, thank you."

Ignoring the veiled threat, Jax shooed the Spearow into retreat and swung around throw a punch at the phantom. The faceless menace caught his fist effortlessly, looking down at him from inside his ominous cowl. There were eyes buried somewhere deep inside that darkness; Jax could feel them on him. And he wished at that moment he was the man his partner had wanted him to be. He didn't want to die a stupid boy.

The phantom apparently didn't care either way, easily lifting the boy up by his wrist and tossing him off the road. He nearly rolled off into the ravine before latching onto a root jutting from the ground, using it to pull himself back up to safer ground. He debated making a dash for the van and recovering his Pokéballs that had fallen underneath his seat. Might have been his only chance at defending himself.

But he was forced to reconsider when he came to his feet and realized he was eye-level with the phantom's wrist cannon.

Fight or flight instinct cranked up high, he dove headfirst into the ravine behind him just as the blinding blue blast rushed to claim him, consuming a chunk of the road in the process and sending pieces of it skidding down the steep slopes with him. He grasped for anything to stop his fall, but the terrain had long since turned to mud and mush from the rain, breaking off like clay with each attempted fistful.

The world fell out from under him, spinning.

He tumbled and rolled.

Then he hit the bottom, smashing his nose and forehead on something hard. He cried out when a shooting pain traveled up the length of his right leg, but was immediately silenced as the debris of the ravaged road and ravine wall buried him alive.

* * *

By the time Aurora arrived on the scene, the damage was already considerable. Smoldering metal littered the pulverized road. The vans were no more. The soldiers that had been manning them were nowhere to be seen. She'd felt their life-forces one instant and then nothing the next; like a light switch, they'd all just turned off.

Chaos was still rampant though—and at the center of it stood Brutis, abusing the sacred power of his crystal by setting it loose into the sky with murderous intent. The helicopters and Spearows caught in his fire weaved and bobbed, enduring, but unable to safely flee.

Sickened, Aurora sprung forward to stand before the Red Cloak. "Enough! We can find another way!"

"You're so right," Brutis agreed without emotion, lowering his arm. He didn't look at her though. He reached into his robe to pull out a tiny, shimmering crystal, then opened the back panel of his wrist canon to toss out the cracked, depleted gem inside and swap it with the fresh one.

"No!" she protested, pleading. "Not this way!"

He didn't listen and raised his arm over his head. Only, the mechanism didn't fire any shots. The crystal inside simply emitting a white flash, a quick but blinding thing, utterly harmless.

Or so she thought.

As if on command, the thunderclouds overhead roared louder, rapidly sending down lightning bolts en masse. She blinked wordlessly as the Fearow and its Spearow flock fell out of the sky, dropping all around her like flies, one after the other. One of the helicopters fell prey to the supercharged storm as well, instantaneously exploding into flames upon contact. Whoever had been inside were all incinerated now, their signatures in the Aura extinguished in one ruthless stroke.

The last helicopter didn't wait around to be crisped and made a mad dash away from the eye of the storm, toward Celestic Town. In response, the mass of gray clouds parted down the middle, releasing its winged orchestrator into the world.

Brutis's Zapdos, she realized. The true cause of the storm from the very start. All along she'd had the mercenaries pegged as the rift in the Aura, but this, right here, was the true wickedness she'd felt while meditating on that mountain perch. Brutis was to blame.

"Never can make things simple," the Red Cloak said under his breath, signaling Zapdos. Before Aurora could speak out against him, the Legendary Bird swooped down and carried its master into the sky in pursuit of the fleeing aircraft. He'd just been toying with the mercenaries until now, she understood with a sick twist in her stomach.

Nevertheless, she channeled her excess Aura through her pendant. Focusing the energy as needed, she catapulted herself into the air and zoomed past Brutis and Zapdos without giving them any warning. Her concentration was on perfecting her landing instead.

The chopper's cabin doors were wide open, making her touchdown easier. The men inside were caught off guard and immediately had their weapons and remaining Pokéballs trained on her before she could throw up her paws.

"You with the psychopath out there?" demanded one of the thugs. He had no weapons on him—just a lockbox lodged under his arm. She sensed an object of great power inside it and quickly understood why Brutis hadn't immediately dispatched this chopper as he had the other.

Before she could talk down the panicked thug, a thunderclap turned all heads to the cabin door. Zapdos was already upon them, angling its body so that Brutis could safely step into the aircraft. Aurora passed him a look meant to plead mercy for these men. She didn't see why any further violence was necessary.

"Good work," he said to her, indicating the lockbox with a gloved finger. "Now let's make this quick before all of Celestic Town wakes up and sees us coming."

"Forget it!" Perhaps on some gut instinct, the thug in question tossed the lockbox out the window behind him, making Brutis rush toward him. Aurora moved to intervene, but the Red Cloak was already finished snapping the man's neck before she could even get close.

The other men in the cabin immediately began unloading their bullets on both Brutis and herself. She dodged fluidly, the Aura pulling and pushing her movements until eventually, she attracted enough attention to become their sole target. Brutis, meanwhile, used the distraction to move to the cockpit and take out the pilot.

Left with no options, Aurora grudgingly went on the offensive, moving from one thug to the next and knocking them out cold to simply end the bullet frenzy. After that, duty and honor shoved her toward the cockpit after Brutis; with luck, she could safely land the aircraft without any further bloodshed.

But Brutis's frame blocked her path to the controls like a crimson wall. Past him, the pilot sagged lifelessly in his chair. She winced at the sight.

"Go after the artifact," Brutis ordered, his rigid tone brooking no argument. "I'll finish here."

She turned her head, looking to the unconscious bodies littered behind her. "I can't simply let them—"

"You can, and you will."

There was a pause as a war inside herself raged. Her feet obeyed the command first before her mind could even fully commit. She made for the cabin doors, maligning herself for it with each step. She'd been brought up better than this. She'd been taught to respect all life since coming to Sinnoh. And now, against her own will, she was being made an accessory to a senseless massacre.

She dove out of the doomed chopper before she could wait around to come to her senses. Not using the fall as an excuse to rest, she scanned the grounds below with her pendant-powered abilities. There was at least one life form down there, somehow, despite everything. A survivor, she guessed; no doubt gunning for Celestic Town with the artifact in tow.

Her land was painless, yet she felt distress all the same when an explosion lit up the sky above. Looking up, she wasn't any surprised to discover the chopper falling in pieces, its debris mixing with the rain to make soot. Brutis and Zapdos flew in the aircraft's place now, patiently hovering high above her.

Remembering her task, she traced the mobile signature she'd been tracking to an outcropping of rock formations several yards off the road where the ravine sloped upward. Her feet became a blur that barely scuffed the ground, the harsh rain on her face feeling more like a shy mist the faster she ran. Legendaries, she just wanted to be over and done with this already.

When she reached the hillock, she didn't have to search long. Attempting to slip away beneath an arch of solid rock, with the lockbox in hand, was a cowled shape not unlike the other disguised mercenaries. His cloak was blue, however—a color and rank nonexistent in the Coalition. Or at least, it was _now_. Whether it was meant to make a statement or simply draw the Coalition's ire was beyond her though.

Curiously, he didn't appear hurt. He moved with neither a limp nor a gimp in his step to suggest he'd just survived a massacre. If she didn't know any better, she might have thought he was never involved in the first place. And if that was true, had he been watching from the sidelines all this time? It made sense. She would have remembered spotting him earlier; for one thing, he was much smaller than others in stature, probably younger too. Certainly young enough to do such a bold, stupid thing as steal from the Coalition.

More than that, his Aura was… different. It wasn't that it was necessarily impressive or even all that strong, really. In fact, it was mostly unreadable, as if purposely blocked. _That_ was what bothered her most.

"Stop!" she shouted through her telepathy, even if it was probably in vain. There was a thick patch of wilderness bordering the escarpment for him to easily flee into without looking back, and she expected him to.

But he didn't. Instead, he stopped at her voice. He turned himself to her.

She reached out to him with her thoughts, approaching him in slow steps but holding up her paws as a show of good faith. "I know you're not with the Coalition. And that's okay. I'm not either, technically. So let's just talk this out."

The thief flinched. Aurora immediately stopped walking toward him, allowing him his space. "Please," she said silently. "That artifact you're carrying is—"

A lightning bolt tore up the ground between them, and Aurora somersaulted backward, landing into a fighting stance. Zapdos swooped down above her but didn't engage her, instead soaring toward the thief with Brutis riding on its back. Refusing to let him upend her progress, she darted ahead of them.

The thief was already fleeing into the woods, however. At Brutis's command, Zapdos called down another chain of thunderbolts to bombard the trees. Though Aurora could have chased after the impostor, she knew she couldn't also ignore Brutis as he was, trying to burn down the forest with no apparent regard for the artifact anymore. It seemed personal now.

Listening to her heart instead of her loyalties, at last, she tossed up a series Aura Spheres to intercept Zapdos's bolts before any trees could catch fire and escalate into an even bigger disaster that might call the Coalition's existence into question. Not that Brutis wouldn't be able to weasel his way out of punishment somehow.

Upon realizing his efforts were bearing no fruit, Brutis lowered Zapdos to the ground and dismounted. He stomped toward Aurora without a word. He seemed to be waiting for an explanation.

When she could find none he would care to hear, she dropped her head. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

There were some fierce words hanging off his tongue, she sensed, yet they never came. He swung around to face the battered treeline, his red cloak swishing as he turned his back to her. She couldn't read his mood anymore. His stillness, his silence, it was unsettling. Even with all his deadly tech, _that_ was somehow his most disarming weapon.

"Fascinating, how he set all of this up," he remarked to the rain, a quiet menace lurking in his voice. "It makes sense, in hindsight. He never expected his hired help to make it back to Celestic Town in one piece."

She nodded in agreement, not that he was even looking. It just seemed like something to do in lieu of coughing up meaningless words for him to brush off.

"He anticipated this," analyzed the Red Cloak, hands settling on his hips. "He was ready to slip in at just the right moment of confusion and make off with his prize."

"It was a very calculated plan," she concurred, though at this point she felt like he was trying to goad her into talking, lead her into a verbal trap somehow.

His hood bobbed. "It seemed like it, yes," he muttered, finally twisting around to regard her. "That was... until you had him in your sights."

There it was. She'd been waiting for it.

Silence reigned supreme again, save for the thunder and rain, until he began to circle her in a predatory way. "You could have foiled him then and there." He let that hang over her for a moment before coming to stand inches apart from her. "Instead, you stood idly by like the pacifist you are and let him escape."

"I had to stop you," she said, meeting his eyes, wherever they were in that dark abyss.

His hooded head tilted to one side. "You had to _stop me_ from protecting the Coalition's interests?"

She glared at his twisting of her words. "The Coalition's first and foremost concern is secrecy. Forgive me, but burning down the mountainside isn't exactly subtle. I just did what I—"

"He has the orb!"

Aurora stiffened. She'd never heard him holler before. She'd never heard any emotion bleed through his glacial exterior. Even if this proved he may have been human after all, it was terrifying all the same.

Brutis regrouped quickly enough. He ignored her for all of the ten seconds it took to thumb the dial on his wrist tech and summon Zapdos back into its crystal. Afterward, he stood solemnly as he was, head tilted back on his shoulders. Perhaps he was watching the rainfall abate, perhaps he was gazing out to Mount Coronet's highest peaks, wondering which hidden pairs of eyes up there, if any, were stalking them through binoculars.

When the silence dragged on too long, he looked to her again. His voice had returned to its usual timbre. "You have no idea what has just been set in motion."

She held her chin and snout high. "With all due respect, I am an Aura Guardian. I was doing my duty."

He shook his head, more in amusement than disappointment, it seemed. "The Aura Guardians you think you know are ancient history. And your _duty_ is to the Coalition." In one apathetic stride, he shouldered past her. "You and your meddlesome master would both do well to remember that."

She spun, watching him start back toward the disaster site. "I will serve the coalition, always," she promised to his back, "but not through violence."

He froze, but his reply wasn't to that specifically. "The High Prophet will be expecting a report."

She nodded, recognizing the threat for what it was. She was ready to accept whatever consequences were coming her way.

"I suppose I'll have to keep your name out of it," he decided after a pause, stunning her. She stretched out with her thoughts to ask why but he didn't allow her the opportunity. "You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing more."

Though she wasn't without her suspicions, she was a slave to good manners. "I… I thank you for it, Lord Brutis."

"You shouldn't, really," he warned sharply over his shoulder. "If it were up to me, you'd be dead where you stand. Consider yourself lucky the High Prophet holds your master in such high esteem. He won't always be around to protect you though."

There wasn't really a polite response to that, so she elected to stay quiet. To say she didn't feel endangered by his words, though, would have been lying. It felt like a slap in the face, really. The Coalition had invited her into their society, protected her secrets, and allowed her more freedom than most of its actual members were permitted. But times were changing. The Coalition was changing. More than that, the White Cloaks were preparing for something revolutionary and weren't as concerned with hospitality these days. Had she finally outstayed her welcome?

"The park rangers will arrive soon to try and make sense of all this," Brutis exclaimed from up ahead, scattering her thoughts. "The police will inevitably follow come the morning. They mustn't find anything to suggest what happened here wasn't simply a messy mishap between local thugs."

"I understand," she panted, sprinting to catch up to him. Not looking at her, he nodded and motioned to the scattered debris and metal fragments strewn across the road. Heavy mudslides had pushed much of the wreckage down into the gorge, fortunately. She hoped it might stay buried there.

"I leave it to you to clean up here," he said after some quiet inspection. "Leave no trace of your presence or mine."

"Yes, Lord Brutis."

"And be quick about it."

She swallowed. "Yes, Lord Brutis."

He departed without saying anything more, marching off the road and disappearing into the rain.

Pushing her feet into motion, Aurora surveyed all that he'd left for her. Fainted Spearows. Charred debris. Blackened dirt and broken heaps of metal from the vaporized vans and choppers. Not far to her left, a lone, mangled helicopter rotor spun pathetically in the wind. It all spoke volumes—to the frightening reality that the Coalition's days of simply waiting and watching comfortably from the shadows were coming to an end. She couldn't shake the feeling this wouldn't be the last battlefield she stood on before the White Cloaks reclaimed their property.

The worst was yet to come.

She cleared the road and nimbly climbed down the face of the ravine to inspect the collateral below and ensure she could account for everything. She wasn't sure the police would so easily swallow the version of events Brutis had proposed. Assuming all the pieces lined up, she could instead stage the scene to look as though a wild Zapdos has simply lashed out unpredictably; it was much closer to the truth anyway, and would have accounted for the storm and much of the damages. The way she saw it, nature simply doing its will wouldn't warrant an exhaustive investigation, let alone any real scrutiny, from the authorities.

She sighed. While a solid plan, it didn't make her any less disgusted with having to cover up murders. Following orders. That's what it came down to and she had to keep reminding herself of that. Her master had warned her to never go against the White Cloaks, so this was just her heeding his caution, she supposed.

She moved at a Slugma's pace as she began to pick through the mucky rubble, failing to achieve a single step without mud slurping at her feet in a desperate bid to keep her anchored. The rain had let up, at least, making it easier for both her eyes and Aura to scan the grounds further up the channel. There didn't seem to be much there though.

As she began to turn back, a stuttering pulse sent ripples through the Aura, bringing her still. Listening to her senses, she spun her head to the rugged bank of the creak now bemired in hills of mud. Something was buried there. Something alive.

She charted a plodding path to the streamside, tracing the faint signature to a mound of heavy rocks that looked to have fallen from the ravine wall. She dug through the obstruction, effortlessly tossing one chunk after the next aside until a noise registered with her ears.

A muffled cough.

Lifting away a final slab of rock, she found underneath a scarred, battered face caked in soot and dirt and blood. A human. His eyes were shut but his mouth was parted slightly to set free a small groan. Leaning down, she reached around his shoulders and delicately pulled him out of the rubble. She gently dragged him off the mound and laid him down upon softer ground where he coughed up a cloud of dirt. Though his eyes remained pressed shut, his head tossed weakly from side to side.

Kneeling beside him, she ran her paw over his forehead to ease his pain with her energy. This afforded her a brief window of opportunity to inspect him more thoroughly; his garments were torn and lacerated in bloody streaks, though not beyond recognition. It was a black cloak he wore, almost unrecognizable from most of the Coaltion's members, but the material was shoddy and without workmanship—just like with the other impostors.

So this boy was one of the thieves then. And he'd somehow survived Brutis's wrath, leaving his fate in her hands. She was sure the Legendaries were testing her now.

Another cough wracked through the boy and he winced in pain, one eye cracking open and closed and then open again. He was drifting in that place between sleep and consciousness.

"Tell me your name," she whispered before he could black out again.

He blinked up at her weakly. "J—Jax."

"Jax," she repeated the name back to him, nodding. "Okay, well, just hang in there, Jax. You're going to be okay."

"He… he said," the human uttered deliriously, the words broken and trailing off repeatedly before finally coalescing. "He said... we wouldn't run into problems."

Aurora blinked at him, trying to make sense of the words as well as the faint smile budding at the corners of his lips. Before she could voice the questions crowding in her mind, the teenager went limp again and sank back into sleep, leaving her with a choice to make and fast. Brutis or any other Cloak would have left him to die a slow, agonizing demise.

But that wasn't _her_ way, and it never would be.

* * *

"So the pretender has the Lustrous Orb."

It was phrased more like a belittling statement than a demand for clarification, and Brutis knew it was no slip of the tongue either. That didn't fit with the esteemed Lord Morbis—First Brother to the White Cloaks, Leader of the Reverent Ones, High Prophet of the Coalition. And bearer of far too many titles for Brutis's taste.

Indeed, this silent keeper of judgment had a way of reminding everyone beneath him how pathetically their individual mistakes stacked up against the high stone chair he sat upon and all the burden and responsibility attached to it. He routinely exaggerated even their smallest, most harmless of mistakes as massive room for improvement.

But this was no small, harmless mistake in Brutis's case. Brutis knew it. The White Cloaks knew it.

While Morbis took his time to mull over the delivered news, Brutis scanned the Delve of Gathering from beneath the safety of his hood, counting the seven occupied seats casting shadows around him. The number was always the same each time, yet he liked to imagine entering the chamber one of these days to find an eighth erected in his name. Even a lower chair would have sufficed. It didn't have to stand at a ludicrous twenty feet like the rest of them. Just so long as he could wear the reigning color while sitting it.

White—the purest, most desired of all cloaks. He'd grown bored of red. He'd grown tired of the limits it placed on him. The white cloak came with no restrictions, no circumspection. Just undisputed power. He once mocked how a simple piece of cloth could hold together the fabric of a society. Oh, how ignorant he'd been then, unseasoned and untrained in the actor's craft.

But now he was ready to respect and love and cherish that piece of cloth for however long it took to fade unnoticed into its destined irrelevance. After all, the cloak by itself wasn't power. It was just the gateway to it. Even if the rest of the Coalition didn't see as much, he knew the truth.

Looking around even now, he could tell they all took their rank for granted. Many of them had been wearing their cloaks so long they'd likely forgotten their own faces. Morbis was equally guilty of this, proven as much by the long, winding beard that began inside his cowl and ended at the floor like a frozen, silver waterfall. He may just as well have been a wizard lifted straight from the pages of some gothic fairy tale.

Of course, no one could really say how old Morbis was. No one dared to ask. Brutis only knew he'd long since passed his expiration date. Unlike the other White Cloaks, Morbis didn't bother with gloves, which meant his gangly, bone-brown fingers were always resting out in the open for all to see. It was as if he wanted it that way to inspire reverence and respect. Really, though, he was just letting everyone glimpse how frail and vulnerable he was.

The longer Morbis sat quietly in his throne, the more obvious his disappointment in Brutis became. The blame had been deemed his to carry from the moment he'd entered the room. He didn't require the Aura to conclude as much, and he recognized it was a sentiment the other White Cloaks shared as well. The power to read his emotions inside and out with just a look—it was that collective gift of theirs they liked to boast in front of him. Make him feel small and inferior. He wasn't quite sure how they even reconciled their pompous entitlement with their deluded belief that they were the Aura Guardians of the modern day.

It didn't matter. He only knew it that made him feel like an outsider, looked down on simply because he couldn't use the Aura in any capacity. It was one of those unspoken things that loomed over him every time he came before them, constantly holding him back from worthiness in their eyes, robbing him of a place among their ranks and the cloak that went with it.

For that reason, Brutis elected to put an to the prejudiced silence himself rather than let it beat him into submission. He wasn't about to let the loss of the Lustrous Orb set him back after he'd had to struggle and claw for so long just get to where he was. He would never go back to settling for the pathetically mundane. If there was one philosophy he'd had to learn all on his own, it was to treat every setback as an opportunity to recalibrate and as vindication to seize what he wanted.

"The operation was apparently a setup," he elaborated on his earlier report, straightening his shoulders under the High Prophet's unmistakable scrutiny of him and leaving no tremor in his unmasked voice; he'd switched off his distorter out of respect. "The impostor escaped before I could attempt capture. Currently, our eyes on the surface can find no trace of him."

Morbis leaned back slightly in his chair, petting what length of his narrow beard he could reach. Twin columns of blue flames flickered softly from the torchlit statues flanking either side of his perch, the right one sculpted in Dialga's likeness and the other in Palkia's. The unlit face carved directly above his head, however, was far more hideous, and dwarfed the other two. The White Cloaks had always liked to imagine it was designed that way intentionally as to command a view of the entire chamber.

Brutis had never given much thought to it. He didn't really care either way, honestly.

"We have waited too long to delay our plans any further," scoffed the voice inside the stark white hood—a voice that was creaking with age, yet still sharp enough to convey indignance. Undeterred, Brutis fell on one knee and bowed his own cowled head, though his voice never betrayed his composure.

"How would you like me to proceed, Lord Morbis?" he asked. "There is only so much we can do on the surface world without drawing attention. Even my… doppelganger is no exception to that."

Morbis's head tilted to one side. "Do I sense hesitation behind your words?"

"Caution," Brutis politely corrected, standing his ground without being obvious about it. "We can't risk what little footing we have on the surface. I would counsel patience instead."

"Patience," Morbis parroted the word in a tone meant to demean the Red Cloak. "I have more than enough patience for the both us, Brother Brutis. That doesn't change the fact that we are almost out of time."

Brutis nodded. "I am aware."

"Aware, but not prepared."

Brutis took a pause to consider that. "Very well then. What can be done to right this wrong?"

The High Prophet's voice became softer, yet developed a steely edge. "If we are to recover what was stolen from us, then you must think outside the box, Brother Brutis. This disastrous turn of events transpired under your watch. Now pick up the pieces. Set things right."

Brutis carefully looked up at his superior. "We could contract some… outside assistance," he suggested, fishing for a reaction. "I know of some people who specialize in just this very sort of line of work. I could never proceed without your blessing, however."

Morbis fell back into silence again, this time twisting his head on his shoulders to exchange unseen glances with the other White Cloaks gathered. None appeared to have any objections. Even so, Brutis knew to tread carefully with this.

"However, given the sensitivity of this matter," he began to remind them, rising to his feet again, "I feel I should warn—"

"You will do what needs to be done," Morbis spoke over him, despite his voice only being a dull scrape against Brutis's much deeper inflection. Regardless, Brutis didn't press the matter.

"Of course," he replied, bowing his head again. "I only live to serve." When no response for or against that claim arrived, Brutis took it as an invitation to leave, and made haste for the stone doors behind him.

That was until Morbis called to him once again.

"Brutis!"

No title to preface his name? An odd touch, he noted, yet he nonetheless spun to attention.

The High Prophet bent forward on his perch, interlacing his gnarly fingers. "Should you succeed in retrieving the orb, I may consider you worthy of a seat here after all."

Brutis flinched, the words sending a jolt through him; it wasn't like Morbis to dangle empty promises. This was almost certainly genuine.

"You've always had eyes for the white cloak," Morbis reminded of what didn't need reminding. "I can sense your appetite for it as we speak. You could finally don it like the rest of us, but only after you've proven yourself."

Brutis kept his voice even, as if the offer held no sway over him. "An honor and privilege, to be sure."

"But do not mistake this proposal as permission to fail." The High Prophet's tone suddenly and curiously rang out with even greater clarity against the flames and the darkness. "Because if you _do_ , there will be dire consequences. You remember what became of Melona, I'm sure."

Brutis winced slightly hearing that name.

"I would hate to see a promising prospect such as yourself share her fate," the White Cloak warned with pretend concern.

Brutis didn't miss a beat. "Your will shall be done, Lord Morbis. As I said, I live to serve."

Without a word, Morbis lifted a spindly finger toward the exit, dismissing the Red Cloak indefinitely this time. Brutis gave a nod in acknowledgment and promptly took his leave, pushing all his weight against the stone doors in his barely contained enthusiasm to set to work. The first roadblock was behind him now; he'd made it through the council's inquisition, somehow coming out with a brighter future than when he'd arrived.

He was pleased things hadn't turned ugly as he initially anticipated. Had it become a matter of self-preservation, he might have mentioned Aurora's part in the mishap, even at the risk of earning the reputation of a snitch. But he hand't. He'd left out of it. And at least now he could store that card away for a rainy day and hold it over her. The nosy Lucario would surely pry into his affairs again at some point or another. He would wait until then to play it.

But there was still the matter of the orb. His future with the Coalition hinged on its safe return, and he had no intention of letting the impostor's trespasses go unpunished.

He turned his head up as a fellow Red Cloak rounded the catacomb corner up ahead, carrying a data slate at his hip. He was moving in a clear hurry—and toward Brutis, at that. The golden Noctowl crest pinned at the top of his robes glinted through the thick shadows and made it easier to identify his trade in the Coalition. Despite that, it wasn't as though Brutis could match the information with a face.

"My lord," greeted the much shorter, slimmer servant in red, his breathless voice registering easily with Brutis. It was Salvis, one of his more recently assigned personal aids, as well as the keeper of the Under Region's lesser libraries. Brutis had given the scholar so little to do since his recent initiation in the Red Fold. Perhaps now he could finally make some use of Salvis's extensive learning.

"Brother Salvis," he returned the greeting, not wasting time with pleasantries. He set the pace for them as he began walking the narrow passage in brisk strides. "Your archives are up to date, I presume."

"Thoroughly, Lord Brutis." Salvis brought up his rusty slate in front of him, pulling forth holographic text with his fingers.

"Then listen well." Brutis turned his head stiffly to the other man to stress the importance of his instructions. "Gather for me every record and report you can find pertaining to this Team Rocket I've been hearing about of late. We need to find a way to get their attention."

 **TO BE CONTINUED . . .**

* * *

 **A/N:** It only took five years, right? I'd been meaning to take a hiatus from my other story anyway, so here we go, I guess. Though he doesn't make an appearance this chapter, don't panic, this is still very much Giovanni's story. This chapter primarily serves as a prologue more than anything else since both the Sinnoh Region and the mysterious Under Region will provide much of the backdrop of this story. I figured it was better to introduce the Coalition now than pile on too much information at once later on.

I'm just going to say this now. I don't have the free time I did when I was writing the first two Giovanni stories. These chapters aren't going to come out at a rapid-fire pace. I'm going to try my hardest to stay on top of it, but don't expect any kind of schedule. I'm telling this story at my own pace.

As always, feedback, constructive criticism, and even ideas are always encouraged and appreciated. That doesn't just extend to any readers of my previous stories, assuming there are any still even active on this site that hasn't moved on and forgotten me. To anyone who stuck around, thank you! To those that didn't, I don't blame you. To any new readers, welcome!

 **Next Chapter** : We catch up with Giovanni, Meowth, and co., as well as some more new characters that will help drive this story forward.

 **New Characters:**

 **Morbis** : Leader of the Brotherhood of the Blue Flame, more commonly referred to as simply the 'Coalition'. He is a mysterious and mostly quiet figure, keeping his true intentions close to the vest. He is gossipped by his people to be the most powerful Aura User in existence. Before the theft of the Lustrous Orb put his plans on hold, he was preparing the Coalition for war—but against who?

 **Brutis** : An ambitious but loyal servant of the Coalition, charged by Morbis and the White Cloaks to help further their agenda using his special connections on the surface. Despite not being Aura-sensitive, he has somehow managed to climb to the rank of Red Cloak, just one rank away from sitting upon one of the seven High Chairs presiding over the Coalition. He intends to keep on climbing.

 **Aurora:** A determined female Lucario training under a retired Aura master. Until now, she has been mostly respectful of the Coalition's activities. Now she fears they may no longer hold the values of an Aura Guardian at heart as she once thought they had. Much of her early past is explored in my other story titled 'The Enigma Chronicles: Echoes", but to anyone who hasn't read it, don't worry. Events from that story will be touched on.

 **Jax:** A cocky, young mercenary that was taken under the wing of his partner Kirby at an early age. For the longest time, he saw his job as all fun and games, rarely ever fearing for his safety. Now, with the loss of his partner and the rest of their team, he has something to fear.


	2. Diamond Dust

.

.

 **Short Change Hero**

 **Chapter 2: Diamond Dust**

 _Pallet Town, two days later..._

The brisk, windy evening had Old Man Takeshi shivering like a leaf, and he rattled the leash in his hand impatiently. "Come on, Scorch. Hurry up and do your business, will ya? Not all of us are cold repellent."

The Growlithe at the end of the tether paced in circles with its snout to the grass, not listening. The old man leaned on his cane with a sigh, looking out at the sprawling pastures ahead. At this rate, they would end up as far out as Pallet Town went and the silly mutt still wouldn't be satisfied. The hour was late, and they needed to get back on the road.

He was about to give his Pokémon another scolding when he heard it. A distant rumble up the road behind him. A sound best described as a Beedrill swarm, but not quite. The closer it drew, the less it sounded like wings; engines, he recognized. Sending tremors rippling through the ground beneath his feet.

He squinted down the road, and that's when he spotted them. Bikers. Six of them, maybe seven. Their fumes made it hard to know for certain. He knew they meant trouble though. He'd heard all the horror stories surrounding a phantom biker gang cruising around Pallet Town and Viridian City by moonlight, nabbing any and every Pokémon they could stuff into their satchels. This had to be them.

And he was caught right in their path.

The rider at the front of the charge tossed a Pokéball into the air as he closed in. "Koffing! Use Smog!"

Before the old man could turn in retreat, a thick, purple haze descended over him, attacking his lungs and vision. He wheezed into his fist and crouched low beside his Pokémon, listening to the motorbikes thundering in circles around him. He could just barely make out their silhouettes blurring by through the smog.

Next came the screech of a motorcycle slamming to a halt, and the crunch of footfalls soon after. One of the riders stepped out of the haze, tall and lanky, a helmet covering his face. Sewn across his jacket, slightly blurred, was a Marowak skull-and-crossbones.

The old man spotted the rider's Koffing emerge behind him, and he coughed out orders to his own Pokémon. "Growlithe, use Flamethrower!"

"Supersonic!" a voice from elsewhere hollered, and the old man whirled. A Zubat fluttered past him, dizzying his Pokémon with its sound waves.

Scorch teetered, spewing out flames in random directions, before collapsing. Takeshi reached for his Pokémon, but the Trainer of the Zubat came belting between them on his motorcycle, snatching up Growlithe and tossing it into a large sack in one fluid effort.

"Wait!" Takeshi cried out. "No fair!"

The phantom rider stopped beside the lankier figure, kicked the stand down, and dismounted. He was considerably shorter than the other, but just as menacing.

The haze cleared, revealing the other five bikers still buzzing around him like vultures. They, too, all wore either helmets or bandanas and shades to mask their profiles. If he had to guess, they couldn't have been much older than teenagers, really.

A smirk curled across the lanky biker's face, clear enough that the old man could see it in the feeble rays of the moon. "Team Righteous thanks you for your generous contribution," he sneered, his voice a low purr in the shadows.

Getting to his feet, Takeshi threw his cane up at the crook accusingly. "You call yourselves Team Righteous, but you're just a bunch of thugs! There's nothing righteous about what you do!"

"It's not _what_ we do," the rider retorted. "It's _why_ we do it that counts."

Old man gritted his teeth, unmoved by the sentiment.

"We're keeping these streets clean of much worse than us, old timer," the shorter hoodlum chimed in. "Consider this the tax owed for our continued services."

"Give me back Scorch! Criminals!"

The taller biker howled in laughter. "You named your Growlithe Scorch? Who's the real criminal here?"

The younger one nudged the leader with his elbow. "Petrel, let's just pay the geezer and get out of here!"

The taller one sniffed. "Oh, come on, Proto. Just why should we pay him the way he's mouthing off to us?"

"Boss' orders, not mine," said the other with a shrug.

The shotcaller sighed and reached into his jacket, fishing out a clip of Pokédollars. He held it toward the old man begrudgingly. "For your trouble."

Takeshi swatted the money to the dirt with the knob of his cane. "I don't want your money! I just want my Growlithe back!"

"Forget this, Petrel!" the smaller rider urged, snatching up the neglected cash from the dirt. "Let's scram!"

With an embittered exhale, the leader called back his Pokémon and stomped back to his motorcycle. The other did the same, hoisting the sack carrying Scorch up over his shoulder.

Panicked, Takeshi hobbled in pursuit. "Wait! Please! Don't hurt my Scorch! Please!"

It was too late. The Pokénappers were mobile again before he could do anything, their tires shrieking and kicking up dust and fumes at his face. He fell to his knees, momentarily blinded. When he came to, the thieves were already peeling down the road, out of reach.

* * *

"Delia, table four needs a wipedown!"

"Just a second," she called back to Phil, the Pallet House's morning cook. She screwed the lid back on the pepper shaker she was wrestling with and brushed stray flakes off the table onto the floor; after all, she was the one who'd sweep it up later anyway.

She straightened her apron and was about to head off to the messy table when another voice called out to her from somewhere else in the diner.

"Waitress! I've been waiting on my steak and eggs for over twenty minutes now!"

She huffed, spinning on her heel and forcing a polite grin. "Be right over, sir!"

"Don't stress it. I've got it covered." Teigan zoomed by her carrying said order on a tray. Delia caught her breath and smiled at her friend.

"You're a lifesaver, Teigen." It was nice having a familiar face to waitress alongside. Delia wasn't sure anyone else would have lined up for the position anyhow; the Pallet House was a busy hive, but the wages weren't great in this economy.

Not that they were great anywhere. As she came to the empty table and picked up the bill, she was reminded of that harsh truth: one dollar on a twenty dollar breakfast. Apparently service with a smile just didn't cut in anymore.

Maybe if she juggled some waffles or something next time?

"They jip out on you?"

She looked over her shoulder; Teigen was standing behind her. With a resigned shrug, she sighed and began stacking the dirty plates in front of her. "It's fine, really. Just part of the job."

The blue-haired girl moved in to help her. "You know, you've been putting in twice as many hours as me lately. You deserve better, honestly."

Delia smiled sweetly at the compliment, but gave another shrug. "It's really not that bad. We're in a recession. Not everyone can afford to tip well these days."

Teigan shook her head in a dissatisfied way. "I'm not talking about that, Delia. I mean, look around. You deserve better than _this_."

Delia heaved a sigh, twisting a pigtail in her fingers as she considered that. She wasn't sure those words rang true, but then again, she hadn't imagined as a girl she would end up a waitress at her crummy family diner with scarcely any money to keep for herself; all her earnings went to her mom, and her dad, bless his heart. Her parents couldn't possibly make ends meet without her help, certainly not now with the business falling under and her father's medical bills piling up.

Still, Teigen wasn't wrong. She had, in fact, envisioned a much different life for herself at almost nineteen—the start of a career, even. Though she'd given up on her dreams of becoming a model, it always seemed like there was potential for her elsewhere. Her journeys through Kanto and Johto had brought out skills she never knew she had; training Pokémon, nurturing them. She very much missed those things. She missed taking care of Faith, too, and wondered if she could recapture that magic someday.

"As for me?" Teigan chuckled, pulling Delia back to the present. "This kind of mediocre life is the best I can hope for. After defecting Torino, I was lucky just to find my way back to you and land this gig. As long I can take home a paycheck for me and my dumb brothers, I can't complain."

Delia giggled. It was just like Teigen to be so sincerely blunt and straightforward. And it was nice to have someone looking out for her other than her overbearing mother. Friends were in short supply these days, what with Sam always buried in his research and Spencer having graduated and moved on to study at university.

And then there was Gio…

"But you're meant for more than a dead-end job in a dead-end town." Teigen was still chatting her up, bringing her back to focus again.

"Maybe," she murmured, stacking up the last of the dirty plates. "But with my mother taking care of my father round the clock, someone has to run the diner for her."

"Oh, right. How is he doing, by the way?"

Delia shifted on her feet, biting back the honest answer. "Oh, well, he has his good days and bad days." She smiled to stress optimism, but it wasn't her best effort, so she decided to circle back to the first topic. "Honestly, Teigen, I'm just happy to help out my family in any way that I can. I mean, now that I'm taking a break from Professor Oak's classes, it's not like I don't have the time."

Teigan leaned back against the table, crossing her arms and throwing up one brow, clearly not convinced. "Maybe you need to carve out some time for yourself. And for Gio."

A laugh bubbled out of Delia before she could call it back. "Don't be silly. Between being a Gym Leader and running his shop, Gio's even busier than I am these days."

"He _must_ be," Teigen sniffed. "It's like you two never see each other anymore." A small grin sprung to her lips. "I bet that makes your mom happy, huh?"

Delia sighed in defeat and wiped her hands on the towel tucked in her apron. "She doesn't let it show, but yes."

"How much you wanna bet that's the real reason she's been keeping you so tied up here?"

Shaking her head, Delia picked up the dish pile and passed it off to the other waitress. She then pulled out her rag to start clearing off the crumb-covered table. "Gio and I are fine. In fact, I'm going up to see him this weekend. We've been planning it for weeks."

The other girl chuckled, a small, hollow sound. "Oh yeah? He gonna come pick you up on that obnoxiously loud crotch rocket on wheels?"

Delia couldn't help giggling hearing that. "If he does, my mother can't know about it. She'll have a heart attack."

"If she has working ears, she'll hear that thing coming before it's even halfway down Route 1," Teigen joked, carrying off the dishes. "Seriously, how haven't you gone deaf?"

"I honestly don't know," Delia replied innocently, not giving Teigan another excuse to brand her a sucker for bad boys. Back when Gio had first gotten his motorcycle and she was still upset with her mother for forbidding her from seeing him, she had snuck out on more than one occasion to go out riding with him. Suffice to say, she'd gotten used to the noise factor.

She finished clearing off the table and stuffed the rag back into her apron just in time for another customer to call out for her.

"Waitress! We're still waiting on our omelets!"

She sighed, turning to walk back to the kitchen. She stopped, however, when she noticed through the windows one of her usual customers nailing a flyer to the picket fence outside. It was a reward poster, by the looks. Concerned, she called out to Teigan behind the counter. "Did something happen to Mr. Takeshi?"

"You didn't hear?" the other girl hollered back. "His Growlithe got Pokénapped last night by those Team Righteous punks!"

She frowned, putting her hand to her lips without thinking. "Poor man. That's the eighth Pokénapping this week."

"Yeah, they're really stepping up their game." Teigen was suddenly beside her again, sharing her view of the window while busying with her hair, trying to tie it back with a strip of leather. "Even on those damn bikes of theirs, they still manage to sneak up on Trainers and make off with as many Pokémon as they can carry."

"Couldn't this be the work of the Rocket Gang though?" Delia asked, part of her hoping it to be the truth; she didn't like the idea of a ruthless gang exclusive to her own backyard. She also didn't like trying to picture what their faces looked like, afraid of what she might find. Since everyone knew everyone in Pallet Town, it most certainly wouldn't be a stranger's face.

Teigan shook her head in the negative. "From what I hear, the Rocket Gang leaves a calling card behind, usually a red 'R' graffitied on a building wall or something. They like whoever they steal from to know they mean trouble. They take pride in it."

Delia swallowed. "How can you be sure?"

"Trust me, Torino was the same exact way," explained the other waitress. "They made sure to drill all that fear mongering hooey into our brains daily before training."

"Right, it's coming back to me," Delia sighed, remembering her unpleasant infiltration of Torino's Snowtop Mountain training grounds, for better or worse. In fact, she'd been right there beside Teigan listening to that propaganda at one time.

"But this biker gang is something else," Teigen went on. "They don't leave anything behind. They don't gloat or play games. It's like they feel justified in what they do."

That didn't sit well with Delia at all. During her travels with Gio, they'd encountered many enemies who'd believed their motivations were necessary or fair or even honorable. Unfortunately, that had never stopped any of them from doing cruel and unimaginable things to both Pokémon and people. In the end, they were just as bad as the others, sometimes worse.

Tiegan barked out a random laugh, playfully nudging Delia's arm with her elbow. "You ought to have Gio to take a break from the Gym and chase down those thugs one of these nights. He'd definitely be able to keep up with them with the wheels he's got."

"Yeah, maybe," Delia murmured a few moments later, by which time Teigen was already rushing off to another table. But she remained put, watching Mr. Takeshi hobble away from the reward poster with his head hung low. She'd seen that despair before on a larger scale back when Torino was still rampant.

How soon before things got _that_ bad, she wondered?

* * *

Giovanni unfolded the morning newspaper and leaned back against the rounded cushion of the booth. He'd deliberately chosen an out of the way table near the back of the crummy, rundown coffee shop, but it allowed him a nice view of the other tables—which were all empty, save for one. Nanu, the newest member of his gang, and some lowlife were cutting a backdoor deal a few tables away. It seemed only one of them knew said deal was happening under his watch though. The stranger must have been new in town, or a visitor, to not have picked up on his presence.

Even if the building flaunted another man's name, it was Gio's turf. Most knew it without ever being obvious about it. And he didn't have to worry about Officer Jenny poking around since the location was so far removed from the rest of Viridian City, smack dab in the outskirts of town. His gang pretty much ran these parts, but his role in their regular activities was more covert than the less incriminating business he was conducting here and now.

He sipped down the last of his coffee, but paused when he caught his reflection in the cup. Too often lately did he flinch at the sight of his own face, slow to grasp that it was still a young man's face and not someone much older. He was going on twenty-one, yet the last two years had dragged by as though it had been ten. So much had changed so quickly. Then again, that was inevitable from the moment he'd shed his identity as a Ketchum and let it fade into obscurity. He'd changed his image to the point where he barely even resembled that kid who fought beside a Meowth to battle wicked forces. Gone were his childish fringes and spikes, snipped away for a much smoother head of hair. His eyes, too, had changed; there was something darker in them now, steelier. And with broader shoulders and a taller, leaner build to complete the metamorphosis, a new identity had been born.

"Can I get you anything else, Mr. Sakaki?" asked Mickey, the shop's owner, pulling Gio from his thoughts as he brought him another coffee.

"No, this will do," Gio murmured, trading cups with the man and tasting the hot beverage with a reverence usually only reserved for Delia's cooking. Setting it down, he smiled up at the pudgy-faced man. "Thanks, Mickey."

"You got it," Mickey said with a cheerful demeanor. He was about to walk away from the booth, but stopped. "Oh, hey, how's the Gym holding up?"

"Like a dream, Mickey," Gio chuckled softly, channeling his personable side. "Like a real nice dream."

"And the auto shop?"

"Still hanging tough."

"Glad to hear it," the other man said. "You know, I got a nephew who's working on getting all his badges. Can I send him your way for a match sometime?"

Gio gave a nod. "I'd be happy to face him. Just let him know I don't go easy on my opponents."

"That's good because neither does he," Mickey quipped back.

Smirking, Gio raised his cup as if in a toast. "Then I have something to look forward to."

As Mickey laughed his way back the counter, Gio reached into the inner pocket of his black leather jacket to lay out some tip money in an effort to appear inconspicuous as he returned to eavesdropping on Nanu. Their transaction was in full throttle now; there was now a Pokéball sitting between Nanu and the stranger seated across from him, and Gio could hear their conversation gaining traction.

"You say you got it as a gift?" Nanu asked, inspecting the Pokéball as Gio had insisted he should prior to the meeting.

"As a kid, yeah," the sketchy Trainer answered in a ragged huff; he had the close-set nervous eyes of a Rattata, frizzled hair shaped like a Tangela, and a twitch in his right shoulder.

Nanu frowned. "You're not lying?"

"No way," the kid said. "Evolved it myself."

"What's its ability?"

The lowlife shrugged. "I don't know. Blaze, I guess? Oh, wait... actually, it's Flash Fire! I just remembered."

"Nature?"

"Mild, I think."

Nanu picked up the Pokéball, squinting at it now. "What attacks does it know? And I mean _good_ attacks."

The Trainer began to fidget anxiously in his seat, setting off alarms in Gio's head. "Uh, let's see… it knows Flamethrower, it knows Lava Plume, it knows Solar Beam. Oh, it knows Stone Edge! And, um, let's see, what else—"

"Alright, I get it," Nanu stopped him, holding up a hand. "So why part ways with such a rare Pokémon?"

The kid leaned into the table, his voice a rasp but still loud enough for Gio to make out. "I need the cash, man. I'm living in a shack off the Vermilion port. The Military Government's assistance programs don't do squat for me, and I got bills to pay."

Gio brought up his newspaper again to conceal his face, yet still kept the two in his periphery. By the way things were going, he expected Nanu to play into the Trainer's sob story and take pity on him. He was glad now he'd come to supervise this meetup lest he end up securing a Typhlosion for the Rocket Gang at a fiscal loss.

"What do you say?" the kid pressed Nanu. "15,000 alright by you?"

Nanu, as expected, began to cave. "Well, I guess that should be—"

"Nanu," Gio uttered into the paper, loud enough to carry over to their table. After a pause, Nanu rose from his chair and slowly sauntered over to the booth. Gio glanced up to meet the other man's sullen red eyes. Nanu was older than Gio, by at least a few ages, yet far less experienced in this line of business.

"He's telling you what you want to hear," Gio quietly muttered, causing Nanu's russet brows to quirk up.

"What?"

"Typhlosion can't learn Stone Edge, for one," Gio began to explain. "And Typhlosion can only inherit the Flash Fire ability through the most complicated method of Pokémon Breeding imaginable. Does that piece of garbage over there look anything like a respectable Pokémon Breeder to you?"

Nanu blinked. "No," he drew out the word, confusion twisting his pale features, "but wait. How do you know all of this?"

"Because," Gio said sharply, "I owned a Typhlosion."

"I didn't learn any of this stuff."

"And that's why I'm sitting here and you're not." Gio folded up the newspaper, glaring at the lowlife seller from the corner of his eye, before returning his gaze to his understudy. "Offer him 5,000. And don't be afraid to intimidate him or he'll just keep walking all over you."

Without argument, Nanu made his way back to his table and plunked himself down. He sat with a more rigid posture now, arms crossed in such a manner that demonstrated strength and power. He finally seemed to be getting with the program, and yet, Gio knew he couldn't fault him completely for the slow burn. He'd been like Nanu once, harboring a mean streak but never really knowing when or how to best channel it.

"I'll give you 5,000," Nanu offered the Trainer icily, finally getting tough.

"What? I thought we just agreed—"

"5,000." Nanu wasn't backing down.

"I mean, that's way less than what I hoped—"

"Last chance."

Just like that, the kid snapped. "Fine! 5,000! Whatever!"

Gio lifted his coffee cup, smirking against the rim. He'd never cared to admit it for the longest time, but he found it rewarding watching degenerates break. In some twisted way, it was the closest thing that came to the old days; there were no Torino goons to pick on anymore and he was forbidden from going against his mother's cronies, so this was the next best thing. He didn't like that he liked it, but it was a guilty pleasure all the same.

Nanu paid the 5,000 Pokédollars to the lowlife, who bitterly kicked back his chair as soon as he had his meager payment and stormed out of the shop. "Next time bring us something more worth our time," Nanu hollered after him.

Gio nodded approvingly as Nanu returned to the booth and handed him the Pokéball. "You're learning," Gio said, inspecting the mechanical sphere for a few moments before attaching it to his belt. The best part was that the Rocket Gang would pay the same amount initially proposed by the lowlife, if not twice as much, for a rare Pokémon like Typhlosion.

The doors to the shop swung open, drawing Gio's attention. One of his gang members walked casually up to the booth, hands tucked into his pockets. He leaned in next to Gio, whispering, "They're making their way back to the Gym."

Nodding, Gio rose from his seat and fished out his biker gloves from his jacket. "Let's ride."

* * *

Gio clutched the handlebars of Diamond Dust—his motorcycle—as he picked up more speed. It was a black cruiser, and it was also the fastest model in his unit. Whenever he rode it, with the wind pounding against his face and the world rushing past, it really made him look back on his Pokémon travels with a laugh. He and Meowth had spent days at a time getting from one destination to another, yet if he'd owned a motorbike back then like he did now, he might have finished those journeys in half the time.

But the best part about owning a motorcycle wasn't the horsepower, or how quickly it accelerated, or how many eyebrows he rose while riding it. It was about being able to escape the confines of society, even if for a flickering moment, and just meditate. Or just let off steam. Pokémon Battles just didn't achieve that same high anymore. Now that he was a Gym Leader, he was a slave to restrictions and regulations, and he was constantly reliving the same kinds of battles over and over again. There was no danger anymore, no excitement, no surprises. He had to behave respectfully now, whereas taking out all his pent-up frustration on Torino and Briskomy drudges had been one of the best feelings in the world.

That said, he'd gotten Diamond Dust first and foremost for himself. It was licensed, of course, and loud enough to convince passersby he wasn't a rider of the stealthy Team Righteous. And technically, he wasn't. Though he still coordinated his gang's nightly runs for the Rocket Gang, he himself had backed out from personally leading the raids some time ago after realizing how much he was putting at risk. He was a Gym Leader now. He was a business owner. He had people in Pallet Town that knew him, counted on him. So he had more to lose than Petrel, Proto, and the others if he was ever caught and exposed.

As he came up on his destination, Gio eased down on the brakes and Diamond Dust choked to a stop beneath him. Setting his helmet down behind him, he engaged the kickstand and climbed off his ride. He ditched his gloves and shrugged his jacket off as he walked through the Viridian Gym's back entrance, combing his gelled hair back into place with his fingers to tame it fractionally. He looked around, not finding a single bike parked anywhere. He'd apparently beaten the others here. That wasn't surprising. It was better when they actually made an effort to slip back into town unseen, even if that meant he had to stand around waiting a little longer.

Occupying himself, he lit up a cigarette and paced around in inspection much as he would every day. The massive space was supposed to double as a vehicle garage for his auto parts business in the event someone came snooping. He'd had it built into the Gym's structure in the weeks following that phone call with his mother. He'd known even then what he would need it for. The trick was keeping it soundproofed during those unlucky days he wasn't immediately able to move his goods to the next location.

"Meeeerow?"

Gio spun, smiling as his feline companion came out from the shadows to stretch the sleep from his limbs. Of all the things that seemed to change, Meowth was the exception, at least where personality was concerned.

"Have a good nap, pal?" he asked, the boy in him cracking through his voice as he reached down to pet the Pokémon's furry head. "I'm starting to think I spoil you too much, letting you sleep around here all the time."

"Meeerow!" the Pokémon purred, which Gio took as a proud confirmation of his statement. He still let Meowth battle during Gym Battles every now and again, having remembered how fat and lazy the Pokémon had grown between his Kanto and Johto journeys; but for the most part, Meowth had phased himself out of combat and begun enjoying the action from Gio's side, so much so that Gio often thought of him as less of a Pokémon now and more as an equal.

He'd been supportive of that transition, too. The fact that a creature could become so self-aware and break free from the traditional expectations of Pokémon was something unprecedented, yet in Meowth, it was acceptable. He and Meowth were of one heart and mind, for the most part, and he didn't have it in him to treat their relationship as anything inferior at this point, not after everything they'd endured together. Though he couldn't allow himself to get attached to Pokémon as he once did, mainly due to the line of work he was in, he could never, ever put a price on his prized pet and best friend.

"You weren't gone long," snapped a calm, if not uppity, voice from further down the hangar. The sound of footsteps clicking toward him followed, and Gio looked up past Meowth, rising to his feet. Sure enough, there was Ariana, one hand on her hip and the other holding a cigarette of her own to her lips. She was wearing that loud, skimpy apricot outfit again, another of many recent attempts to entice him.

Legendaries, he hated it.

"Earlier than some," he muttered, taking a drag and shouldering past her to continue his pacing. She made a snide sound at his obvious rebuff, and he figured if he kept it up she would eventually lay off him. He forgot how this even started. Like him, she'd taken on a background role in the gang's activities and decided to become his secretary, even if she refused to call it that. And ever since then, she'd changed, dropping much of her accent, acting less like a delinquent and more like a woman of class.

And in the last two years, for whatever reason, she'd become infatuated with him. He suspected he knew the real reason behind it, but as it wasn't his business, he'd kept silent.

As if summoned by the thought, a purr that wasn't Meowth's spun him toward to the entrance of the garage. Riding in through the back gates behind the Gym was Petrel and Proto, carrying on their bikes several bountiful sacks full of goods. They entered the garage smoothly, sputtering past Gio and parking further down, out of view from anyone that might pull in looking for a mechanic.

"By all means, make more ruckus, why don't you?" Ariana hollered over the rumbling motors, the sarcasm directed at Petrel, in particular. The two had made a sport out of constantly being at each other's throats.

The engines ceased, and the two hopped off their seats to unfasten the purloined cargo hitched to their rides. Afterward, Proto didn't waste a second ridding himself of his helmet and whipping out a paperback novel from his jacket that he'd apparently been dying to unbookmark.

"Happy to see us, I hope?" Petrel asked the moment he yanked off his own helmet. He was all smiles and chuckles, predictably. This one never changed. He was still the jokester, the prankster, the self-proclaimed master of trickery. He was just taller now, was all, and with ear piercings hanging from either side of his narrow face. He'd also shaved down the sides of his purple bundle of hair to leave a sort of mohawk in the middle, but one that didn't extend all the way down the back of his head and didn't have the strength to stand up. As if he didn't stick out enough already beforehand.

Scowling a little, Gio dropped his cigarette, grinding it out with his shoe. "It's risky to ride in the daylight, Petrel. It really took you all night to get back here?"

"It was a late night run," Petrel heaved, explaining without really explaining. "Happens sometimes." His eyes darted to Ariana, and he smirked from the corner of his mouth. "Speaking of late nights, I didn't spot you at your usual street corner, Ari."

She grimaced at the lewd joke. "Well you must have mistaken me for your wife then," she retorted, before cupping her cheek in mock abashment. "Oh, wait! I forgot that you're a loser! You don't have a wife! That was just you in drag that one time!"

"It's called a disguise," he sniffed, turning his whiskered chin up at her. "And it worked wonders. I scammed that hotel into thinking I was two people and came out of it with _two_ complimentary breakfasts."

Ariana snorted a laugh. "They probably just felt sorry for a man with multiple personalities."

"Give it a rest, both of you," said Gio, before turning solely to Petrel. "You and Proto didn't use each other's actual names, did you?"

Petrel shook his head in mock disappointment. "I made that mistake _one_ time, Gio, and you've been on my case ever since! But put your mind at ease, okay? On the prowl, I go by Petrel and only Petrel. Even if the police catch wind of that name, they'd never be able to match it to one Kirk Petrella."

"I'll take your word for it, Kirk," Gio teased, smirking a little. He was about to go examine the goods when he spotted a familiar clip of Pokédollars on the ground that must have fallen off one of their jackets. He bent down, taking it into his hand. "What's this all about?"

The question was meant for Proto, as he was closest, but the boy was nose-deep in his book, his back slouched against the wall and his mind probably in another dimension. If Ariana had changed over the years, Proto had totally transformed. Despite being the youngest in their group at only fifteen, he had somehow become the most cultured and sophisticated; he still had a mischievous side, but nowadays he would spend most of his time with his hands glued to prose and literature for hours on end.

And he went by Proto now, an even shorter abbreviation for his already abbreviated codename. Long ago Gio had suggested he go by Proton since his real name, Preston Pence, didn't jive well with his personality. And now it was like he was going out of his way to live up to his birth name. It could have been puberty, or maybe a new phase in his rebellious streak. Gio only knew that once, he'd been a slim and snarky kid with sea green hair and an air of what seemed to be obliviousness. Well, now only the first part was true.

"Proto!" Gio shouted the name this time, breaking the boy's focus and making him look up.

"Hmm?"

Gio waved the money clip in his hand without wasting his breath again.

"Oh, that," Proto sighed, licking his fingertip and turning another page in his book. "The owner of that Growlithe over there wouldn't take it."

Gio frowned at the news, and slipped the cash into his pocket. He didn't know why he bothered anymore. The people of Pallet Town were a noble and stubborn breed. Even so, he'd hoped to paint Team Righteous in a more flattering light by having his men compensate Trainers for their lost property. Even if it didn't fill the void for them, at least it would have helped his damn conscience.

"No one ever takes the cash," Petrel grumbled, making his way to the stolen Pokémon. "Seriously, how do you turn down a cash handout?"

"Their loss," Gio dismissed quickly, not willing to get worked up over it. He moved to stand behind Pretel as the lankier man carefully removed the unconscious Pokémon from their respective satchels. They were mostly of the smaller variant; there was the Growlithe spoken of, but also some Pidgeys, some Rattatas, and one Butterfree.

Gio focused on the Growlithe for some time before moving on to inspect the less rare cargo. "These ones give you any trouble?"

Petrel shook his head. "Nah. The rest were wild, not trained."

"The Rocket Gang doesn't have to know that," Gio grumbled under his breath. After the boatload of trained ones they'd sent the Rockets home with last week, he expected they would just shut up and be grateful. Team Righteous wasn't even a part of the Team Rocket, yet they were their top suppliers, all the same.

"Put them in the kennels below until we're ready to ship them out to the Rocket Gang," Gio said, pointing to the doors near Ariana. "We'll freight them in small groups. Won't draw attention that way."

"Will do," Proto said, pushing off the wall and snapping his book shut. He retrieved the pushcart dolly from the other side of the garage and wheeled it back to the sleeping bounty littered around Petrel.

"And make sure they're well fed," Gio uttered as an afterthought, giving his friends pause. They were glimpsing that vulnerable side to him now, the one that had drawn Delia to him and repelled his mother. That voice in him that once manifested as his father.

Damn his conscience.

Meeting Petrel's gaze, he quickly cleared his throat to change the subject. "Where's Rocco and the rest of our crew?"

"They went to go get the truck," he explained as he began to load the Pokémon onto the dolly. "Oh, by the way, if I'm going to be the one driving that giant tin box tonight, could your mother's grunts at least make an effort to show up at the rendezvous point on time?"

Gio scratched coyly at his chin. "She and I aren't exactly on speaking terms, Petrel."

"Which is totally fine, Gio," chirped Ariana, suddenly clinging to his shoulder. "You know, it's like we're kindred spirits, you and I. I haven't spoken to my own mother in ages!"

Petrel chortled at that. "Ah yes. The Cretaceous era, was it?"

She glowered at the lanky smartmouth. "Swine."

"Redhead," he fired back.

"Idiots," Proto sighed in passing, now the only one among them loading up the Pokémon.

Gio shook Ariana off of him and dragged his fingers over his temples. "Can we please just focus on getting these things into kennels?"

"You heard the man," Petrel declared, pointing Ariana across the garage. "Get into your kennel!"

The both of them went on at some length, throwing jabs back and forth, leaving Proto to wheel the Pokémon below the Gym where the kennels and cages were stored. Gio noticed Meowth's concerned eyes following Proto, and he felt a twinge of guilt he couldn't so easily bury in bitterness this time. He'd thought by now Meowth would have understood the situation.

He knelt down beside his Pokémon, running a hand along his soft, satiny back. "If there was another way, Meowth, you know I would—" He left that sentence hanging, and swallowed a hard lump in his throat. "This is the only way I can keep Delia and the others safe."

"Meereeeow." Meowth tilted his head, blinking up at him. Gio considered putting together a more lucid explanation for the Pokémon, but he thought better of it when he noticed Ariana swaggering over to him again.

"You seem eager to make these Pokémon scarce," she observed with a toss of her head. "Delia visiting tonight, by any chance?"

He drew out an exhale as he came to stand. "No, Ariana."

She affected shock. "Oh! So... once again, you'll be all alone in that big mansion of yours tonight with no one to keep you warm?"

"Actually, I was going to work late tonight," he said, thinking up something on the spot. It worked out nicely, too, since he enjoyed spending his time away from home. He'd never truly gotten accustomed to living in his childhood house again. He didn't like the memories it held for him. And he didn't like that it was still technically his mother's house since she'd paid it off for him as part of their agreement.

"Well, good," Ariana said innocently, touching his arm in a not so subtle effort to feel him up, "because frankly the business and the Gym both need your attention more than she does. And thankfully you won't have to suffer the workload alone. In fact, I was thinking we could have some champagne delivered to your office later and make the most of our busy itinerary."

"Ariana" Gio grumbled, "I don't think—"

She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him, and pulled what looked like a menu seemingly out of thin air. "As it happens, I just happen to have tonight's selection of specials from that fancy new restaurant around the corner. We could order in and—"

"Can we talk later, Ariana?" Gio cut her off, running short on patience. "I have to get back to the Gym." He sidestepped around her and motioned behind him. "Come on, Meowth."

"Gio!" she called after him in a pouty voice. "Wait! Don't you at least want to glance at the menu? Should I order a bottle of cabernet just in case?"

Petrel let out a dry cough of a laugh as Gio approached him. "She can order as many bottles as she wants, but it won't be for two."

"I would laugh, Petrel, since no one else will," Proto sighed wearily, reemerging with the now empty dolly, "but I'm beat."

Petrel sagged dramatically, wiping pretend sweat off his brow. "You're preaching to the choir, my friend." He let out a yawn that ended in a little yelp. "Gio, at the risk of sounding like a nuisance, these nightly deeds have been murdering whatever's left of my sleep cycle."

Gio nodded. He got it. It had been a long night, a grueling run, and they were looking forward to simply crashing. He would have been right there with them if he was still out heading the pack himself. He remembered being just as exhausted back before he'd decided to stick to the shadows and keep a low profile as gang leader.

"Go home and get some sleep, both of you," Gio said. "I'll have Nanu make the delivery tonight. I need you both sharp for the next run in a couple days."

"Much obliged, pal," Pertel applauded, patting Gio's shoulder in a comradery fashion before ambling out of the garage and back into the city, presumably. Gio wasn't quite sure where Petrel was living these days, honestly.

Proto was more reluctant to leave, however. "You sure about this, Gio? Shouldn't the business come first?"

Gio smirked, appreciating the boy's ambition, but knowing better than to overwork a friend. "Come on now, I'm not heartless. Go home. Chug down a cold one for me. Get some sleep. No reading. Just sleep."

"If you say so," he sighed with a shrug, flicking back his green quiff as he, too, took his leave. Gio considered offering the boy a ride home back to Pallet Town, given that their motorbikes could only be ridden by moonlight. Then again, Proto probably would have been happy to use a lengthy bus ride as an excuse to bury himself in more reading.

Gio made his way inside before Ariana could ensnare him again, Meowth following at his heels. This was the point in his daily routine where he switched gears entirely, morphing from gang leader to Gym Leader. It took its toll on him. He'd been excited when his mom first left him the Gym after going into hiding, and while it still had its perks, it had gradually become more of a chore than a treat. At least with his gang, there was still some element of surprise and freedom, dancing with danger and whatnot. While Petrel, Proto, and Ariana had been drawn to debauchery simply because they had nothing else in their lives, Gio felt like he thrived on it for different reasons, guilty reasons.

When it came down to it, though, he didn't particularly like that his gang did the things they did of late. He preferred the days of mindless, harmless vandalism to the position he'd been coerced into for the past two years. He could bring himself to overlook the abduction of a few lousy Pokémon, sure, yet the thought of disappointing Delia was a punishment he could never make himself numb to. Still, it always seemed like an impossible situation to wiggle out of because he was only helping the Rocket Gang in order to keep them off his turf; that was the deal he'd made with his mother, and he dared no violate it. The last thing he needed was her scumbag collection polluting Viridian City and Pallet Town, upending the lives of everyone he cared about.

At a certain point, something would have to give though, and Delia would end up hurt regardless. He didn't like to think about it though. He had to continue believing he could keep things under control and protect the ones who mattered by simply continuing what he was doing, at least until a better solution came along. He wished he could speak to his father. He still had the journal, but he could only lean on that so much for wisdom. It could never compare to the real thing. On one hand, he wasn't sure the honorable Clint Ketchum would ever openly approve of the man his son was becoming; but having a parental figure to turn to without being judged didn't seem like too much to ask for.

Because he knew his only other parent would neither care nor understand, especially since she'd helped put him in this tangle he was in.

* * *

The Rocket Gang's perks easily eclipsed Briskomy's, thought Rita Ketchum as she stood before the mirror in her deluxe office. For one, she now had the freedom to let her fashion sense sparkle. Some might have declared her leggy, red skirt suits gaudy and unbecoming, but hell, she thought they looked just terrific. And it fit with the Rocket Gangs flagship color. It only seemed right as its leader to flaunt the team colors after all. Not that she needed an excuse

There was just one little downside: no one outside of the Rocket Executives and elite agents was allowed to see her face since, officially, Rita Ketchum no longer existed. She now had to run her operations from the shadows at all times just to keep that secret, rarely ever leaving Rocket Headquarters. She'd compensated for this somewhat by having the lighting in her office adjusted to allow just enough light dribble over her without illuminating her profile. This way everyone could still ogle at just how fabulous she looked without ever putting a face to the wardrobe and the smoking body that worked it.

An obnoxious buzzing from her desk turned her away from her reflection, and she slowly walked back to her post, her red heels clicking against the tiles. She dimmed the overhead lights with a clap of her hands, a little feature she's recently installed at a steal. Planting herself in her comfy, swivel chair, she poked the red button jutting from the intercom.

"Yes? Who is it?"

"Boss, please listen to this tape!"

At the sound of Miyamoto's frantic voice ringing over the speaker, Rita smiled. "All right, Miyamoto, oh, Miyamoto-chan," she answered, lingering for a moment. "'Making good money these days?'"

"Here and there, Boss!" came the prompt response; the Rocket Gang password, of course. Mediocre security had become one of Rita's pet peeves recently. She'd wasted no time enforcing a cheap but effective solution: a simple, verbal password system for any who desired an audience with the one and only Madame Boss of the Rocket Gang.

Or was it Team Rocket now? She couldn't be bothered to find out which name was trending over the other anymore. She didn't care that much, so long as her little enterprise kept racking in profits and stomping on competition. It was through Miyamoto's hard work—along with some good ol' slimy political maneuvering from Kade Sorhagen, her most dependable Rocket Executive, on the side—that Kanto's criminal and political underworlds had allowed her to control the black market so easily following the power vacuum left by the Rocket Empire.

Hell, she'd picked up some useful know-how herself along the way, becoming sharper than ever when it came to monetary matters and expenses. Whereas as Kade's connections and Miyamoto's newly developed field agent talents brought in wonderful results of their own, Rita's gift for budgeting brought in the savings. And big time! Cheaper yet more stylish uniforms, more economical equipment, and stolen Pokémon in lieu of messy firearms regularly guaranteed that the Rocket Gang was never short on cash supply.

She'd always dreamed of another Briskomy—but scarier, and unrestrained by public opinion. Now she was living that dream!

Hitting the door switch under her desk, Rita patiently folded one shapely leg across the other as the skinny silhouette of her most elite agent and dear friend came barreling into the office, eventually coming out of the shadows and into the light. She was out of breath and carrying a device and some equipment that looked a tad too expensive for Rita not to gawk.

Still panting like a Houndour, Miyamoto wiped the sweat licking her purple bangs and slammed the machine down on the desk without a word, the finality of the noise bringing Rita's brow up into her satiny raven hair. Curiosity cursing her, Rita squinted at the foreign equipment. Through a see-through panel on the front component, she could barely make out the gears of an audio cassette spinning away inside. Only one important question popped into her mind then.

"Will this tape make us money?"

Miyamoto paused the recording, sighing. "No, no, Boss. This isn't for sale."

Boss. Rita smiled at the word. The lower-ranking grunts were still usually torn between addressing her as Madame or Boss, but Miyamoto had chosen the latter and always spoke it with certainty and clarity and respect. How she adored it.

"This recording was taken in a South American jungle with our splendid Rocket Gang high sensitivity microphones," continued Miyamoto.

Immediately, Rita threw up her palms. "Wait, wait, wait! Just how much were those microphones?"

"What? Oh, um, they were 50% off at a closeout sale."

Rita let go of a tense breath as she leaned back into her leather chair, eyeing her subordinate expectantly from the shadows hanging over her face. "Really, Miyamoto? You couldn't bargain a bit more?"

"Aw, that's the best I could do," her friend rushed impatiently to reply. Her focus was entirely fixed on the overpriced gadget sitting on the desk. "Anyway, what was recorded was this sound, Boss."

Rita leaned forward slightly, forcing a look of interest. "So what is it?"

"If one asks this and that," Miyamoto murmured absently, tinkering with the machine another few moments before snapping to attention again. "In a jungle where we can't catch sight of Pokémon so easily, we record their voices. And through the analysis of that, we can determine the direction they're in as well as their location. Oh, and don't worry. This method is low budget and saves us a bit of money."

Rita had heard every word, yet still couldn't unwrap her brain around one glaring annoyance from earlier. "You know," she huffed, hunching into her desk and steepling her fingers under her chin. "I would bring it down a little more, those microphones to 60%."

Miyamoto looked stunned one moment, then was quick to indulge her the next. "I'm sorry to say, but even at 50% off they're high sensitivity microphones. Various Pokémon voices have been lucidly recorded." Apparently using that as a springboard for her next pitch, she pressed another button and nudged the glorified tape recorder toward Rita's side of the desk. "Please listen to them. Can you hear anything?"

Rita groaned, but nonetheless leaned her head in as requested, yawning when a messy jumble of boring rainforest sounds all at once threatened to put her to sleep. "What fascinating thing am I supposed to be listening to, exactly, besides the beautiful sound of my own voice?"

Immediately Miyamoto began puttering with more buttons and dials than Rita cared to keep track of. "Well, first, we'll eliminate the sounds of the wind, trees, and rivers. In other words, all nature sounds."

Rita craned her neck. The varying noises weren't as jumbled anymore, interestingly. If nothing else, this was at least a nice demonstration of Miyamoto's tech-savvy skills. That was a potential moneymaker in itself.

"Next we'll eliminate the voices of bird and insect Pokémon that usually inhabit these jungles," Miyamoto continued, pressing another button somewhere. Rita felt her patience and understanding thinning with each sound that slipped out of existence, eventually culminating into a massive eye roll from her.

"What a waste," she complained. "If you're going to erase it, you didn't have to record it."

"Listen," Miyamoto shushed her, the urgent hiss in her voice surprising Rita at first. Then with the press of another button, a soft, isolated tune unexpectedly broke through the crackle of the device's speaker. Rita couldn't place the instrument at first. A whistle? A flute? It sounded… unworldly.

"It's a kind of country music native to that area," Miyamoto answered the question before Rita could ask it. "A long, long time ago… people say that among the mountain sand-lakes, a phantom Pokémon lived. Well, it is said that, once a year, that phantom Pokémon appears with the rising of the sun."

Rita slanted her head, twirling her hair around her finger. "Hmm… and then what?

The elite agent rested a white-gloved finger over the melodious speaker. "The Pokémon of this song is apparently the world's rarest, strongest, kindest, and bravest of Pokémon. More than that, it's apparently a Pokémon to be thankful for because it watches over all of us."

Rita flashed her canines; it was like money to her ears. "Sounds perfect."

"I thought so too, Boss. In fact—"

"And by perfect, I mean perfect for profit!"

Miyamoto chuckled but didn't let her focus slip, bless her heart. "Anyway, people say this folk song is in honor of that Pokémon." Her eyes became a touch sadder for some reason. "In fact… I heard it myself once after Jessie's father abandoned me on our honeymoon, leaving me stranded and heavily pregnant with our child in that strange, faraway land."

Narrowing her eyes, Rita leveled her pointer finger at the speaker. "So you've visited this place before making this recording, have you?"

The other woman nodded, despite still drifting on a stormcloud of memories. "We'd conceived out of wedlock, of course," she recalled, and Rita did her best to pay attention. "In the end, I suppose he was always just waiting for the soonest possible escape exit. I did tell you this story already, didn't I?"

Rita instinctively bobbed her head. "Yes, yes, of course you did, Miyamoto!" Eager to swing back to more important matters, she gripped the device with both hands to conduct her own personal inspection of it. "I wonder if it'll sell if we make a CD out of this tape. We can make a CD out if it, can't we?"

"We're talking profits now," Miyamoto giggled, a gleaning statement more than a question. "I know profits are important to you, Boss. That's why I've targeted this phantom Pokémon myself. I've waited for years." She turned her body halfway and pulled a golden locket from the collar of her uniform, sniffling a bit as she stared at a photograph of her baby daughter whose name Rita cursed herself for forgetting yet again.

"Even when I had my cute beloved little girl, I didn't leave that place," Miyamoto whispered, touching her daughter's photographed face. "Only when things finally got rough financially did I decide to return to the workforce."

Rita snorted, unable to blame her. "Children cost so much money, don't they? My little brat boy at home is horrible! But I digress. Whatever happened to little Jenna, anyhow?"

" _Jessie_ ," Miyamoto corrected, stuffing the precious locket back into her uniform. "And I explained to you once already, Boss. I just couldn't find the time to be both a mother and a field agent simultaneously. I had to put her up in a foster home, at least temporarily until the business simmers down."

"That's good intentions," Rita couldn't help but praise. She'd always admired Miyamoto's rigorous work ethic, even during their Briskomy days. Mainly because it meant she never had to be the one to stay on top of everything; Miyamoto and Kade were better with organization anyhow.

The other woman laughed, puffing out her chest and striking her most fabulous Rocket agent pose. "Yes, well, my life is one: profit! Two: economize! No three or four! And five: Pokémon!"

Rita sprung out of her seat and clapped excitedly, Miyamoto's energy proving contagious. "You're the ideal image of the Rocket Gang, Miyamoto! Women like you and I don't need distractions like children holding us back from greatness! We're independent! We're on top of the world!"

At that, Miyamoto went still for a beat, then touched a finger to her bottom lip. "We _could_ be, anyway," she hummed thoughtfully, flooring Rita, before returning her eager mitts to the idle equipment between them. "There's more we can listen for. I'll go ahead and eliminate the folk song next."

With a push of a button, she was true to her word and the strange folk music was filtered out. Rita kept her hands flat and unmoving upon the desk, waiting for something to happen.

"Can you hear it?" whispered Miyamoto across the desk.

"I can't hear anything."

"Let me just raise the volume." Miyamoto twisted another knob, and without any warning, something chirped out of the void.

"Mew… Meeeiuu!"

Rita pushed her hair out of the way and held her ear closer to the device for a better listen, mouthing the dialect back to the recording. "Mm, mm?"

"Meeeiu!"

At that, Rita straightened. "What in the world?"

The tape then stuttered into static, somewhat to Rita's disappointment. Miyamoto clicked off the device and allowed her superior a moment to mull over what they'd heard and the implications it carried. Some creature had made those odd chirping sounds, Rita was certain of that much.

"It's a voice no one has ever recorded," Miyamoto extrapolated with a confident nod, apparently reading her boss's expression. "The sound waves are definitely those of a Pokémon."

"Then that means…"

Miyamoto nodded, smirking. "After all, the phantom Pokémon exists! And the people of this area call this phantom Pokémon... Mew."

"Mew?" Rita inquired, sounding out the name on her tongue. It wasn't exactly inspired, but whatever.

"Mew's crying went from the South American forest and disappeared into the mountains next to it," Miyamoto continued to brief, carefully folding away the expensive equipment and the recorder with it. "If we catch it, we'll make a fortune! Strike while the iron is hot! Evil must run! Talks of profit go like the super express bullet trains!"

A knock came from the doors, spoiling the moment. A muffled voice followed.

"Excuse me, Madame Boss?"

Rita folded her arms over her chest, staying put. "What's the password?"

The voice hesitated. "Uh… what?"

"He must be new, Boss," Miyamoto huffed, moving to the doors with one hand gripping the Pokéball at her waist just in case. Rita slid back behind her desk, into the shadows again.

The door opened. The silhouette of a male grunt stood in the entrance, handing something to Miyamoto. "A letter addressed to the Rocket Gang's leadership, ma'am. It was left in the pocket of one of our grunts while he was napping in an alleyway."

Rita barked out a laugh. "Okay, even I can acknowledge how much wrong there is with that sentence. But I'm in such a good mood thanks to Miyamoto and her latest discovery, so I'm going to go ahead and ignore it."

Miyamoto took the envelope and sent the grunt on his way before turning back toward the desk. Rita gave a nod, permitting her friend to open the mail and read it for her. It suddenly felt like the old days again, before Miyamoto was promoted to the field.

The purple-haired agent unfolded the letter and brought it into the light, skimming its contents. Suddenly, her eyes widened, and she slowly looked up from it to meet Rita's gaze. "It's a message from your son, Boss."

A snort was all Rita could muster at first. "What, did that brat boy forget how to pick up a telephone?"

The other woman swallowed around the words. "It's not Giovanni, Boss."

Rita stiffened. She couldn't find words as something inside her quietly boiled its way to the surface.

"It's the other one, Boss," Miyamoto clarified in a squeak.

Rita angrily grasped the armrests of her chair. " _Him_ again?"

A nod. "Him again."

 **TO BE CONTINUED . . .**

* * *

 **A/N:** I had a tough time with the first part of the last scene. I'd hoped to lift it straight from the Mewtwo CD drama without complications, but the English translation is pretty choppy, for lack of better words. I made some adjustments to make it flow better with the rest of the chapter.

Also, to anyone reading Echoes that might be confused, Gio's Team Righteous has no affiliation with Eden's Team Righteous. There will be a throwaway reference to the latter as part of a joke later on, but otherwise, no connection whatsoever.

Fun little fact. Nanu's role this chapter was originally meant for some nameless extra, but I changed it after catching an episode of the Sun and Moon anime recently in which Giovanni actually calls Nanu and vaguely mentions some history between them. So, yeah, I couldn't resist.

 **Next Chapter** : We are introduced (or reintroduced, if you're following Echoes) to the Saffron Mafia; Gio starts to see a need for a change; Aurora must decide what to do with the sole survivor of Lord Brutis's massacre.


	3. Children of the Revolution

.

.

 **Short Change Hero**

 **Chapter 3: Children of the Revolution**

Marco Sapone shifted slightly in his chair to make himself more comfortable, even though no one else moved to a tic. The music thumping from the casino lounge upstairs only drew attention to the rigid silence filling out the large, dominating table, currently seating some of the most powerful bosses in the Saffron Mafia, along with a handful of other reputable gangsters that had thrown in their lot with Giuseppe after losing their business to the Rocket Gang.

There was a tension in the room but one Marco wasn't a stranger to. He glanced down to the head of the table where Giuseppe Depiro himself sat, intensely focused as the scribe sitting to his right exchanged whispers with him and repeatedly pointed to the letter draft between them. Marco wondered if maybe this was overkill now; they'd just sent out a message only a day prior, and three more a week before that. Rash decisions weren't Giuseppe's way. Marco knew if this backfired somehow, then that meddling priestess would be to blame.

There was a fleeting moment in which the kingpin's somber eyes flashed to Marco's, unable to fight back temptation. He didn't smile though. He just sort of regarded him plainly for the half-second it took to get Marco to grin for the both of them; and then, just as quickly and fluidly, snapped right back to focus. Giuseppe never ceased to impress Marco in his unwavering professionalism. The young mob boss sat with more regal dignity than the late Mos Vinci could ever scrape together. It was like he was born to lead. He had the posture down, sure, but he also carried the image. And Legendaries, he was tall, especially for just fifteen years old. Even when just sitting, for that matter. In fact, he sat about a head taller than Marco, despite being a whole year younger.

He looked so mature for his age, too—not like Marco at all. He cut a robust figure, with broad shoulders and piercing brown eyes that were more keen and pensive than menacing. He also had just the faintest dip in his chin that was hammocked between sharp, granite jaws. Marco always found himself drawn to that feature most, not that he would ever tell his friend as much and make things weird. Those things didn't need to be said. Giuseppe knew how Marco felt, and that was enough.

And yet... Marco constantly wrestled with himself over what someone so strong and formidable like Giuseppe could possibly see in a nobody like him. He wasn't tall or big or intimidating like the other mobsters; hell, the only scary feature about him, easily, were the scars parading his narrow face. Even looking past that, there wasn't much to redeem it. His build was lanky, not even respectable, really; and his eyes were a dull grey, like even they were trying to go unnoticed and blend into the background. And then there was also his long, obnoxious blue hair to consider, grown out and tied up into a half-assed, low ponytail that didn't at all compliment his friend's suave trove of brown, which was so neatly and professionally combed back.

Regardless, Giuseppe had insisted it was _potential_ he saw and admired in the other boy, though it was hard for Marco to reconcile with that either. He'd never seen potential in himself. Ever. He'd been born into nothing _with_ nothing. His father had been a butcher working at one of the mob's favorite joints before an Electrode blew their meager livelihood to smithereens, leaving Marco scarred and fatherless and with nowhere turn to except the slums of Saffron City with only the Rattatas to keep him company.

Now here he sat, among some of the most powerful, fearsome gangsters in the Kanto Region, flaunting a perfect bill of health, with a stomach that never went hungry, wearing a lavish suit, earning a damn fine living and carrying two years of smuggling experience under his belt. He didn't deserve any of it, yet Giuseppe had made it possible, for no logical reason. Maybe the crime lord had seen his own struggle to survive in Marco somehow; they'd both been born unprepared to deal with their respective life-changing circumstances, after all, and now they were two teenagers standing together at the head of a reborn criminal empire.

Oh, no question, this much responsibility wasn't conventional for kids like them. It just wasn't the norm, for Marco especially. At least Giuseppe had had the birthright in his pocket; it didn't matter that he was only fifteen because he'd been the next in line after his father, Don Calypso, to take over the business. It was always just expected of him, regardless of his inexperience, which turned out not to be a monkey wrench after all. Mos Vinci, who had been the interim boss pending Giuseppe's ascension, had failed at every turn to bring the Saffron Mafia back to glory and refused to fight for any opportunity to do so. He'd let Torino walk over him, then let the Rocket Empire do the same.

Then Vinci died, sooner than Giuseppe was ready for. It hadn't stopped the fifteen-year-old from bearing up and doing his duty though, at least from everything Marco had heard. The young Depiro accepted the ascension at only thirteen, giving up his childhood and becoming the man and leader the crime family needed in order to weather the shitstorm left for them by the late Rocket Empire. All those years of quietly studying and learning from the failures of his elders had stuck with him, informing his decisions for the better part of his two years as the godfather. Giuseppe wasn't vicious like Calypso or cowardly like Vinci. He could be ruthless, sure, but he was fair in his leadership, with a sense of honor and justice unlike any of his predecessors.

But Marco still understood his own situation was different from Giuseppe's and that nothing could change that, regardless of what little ground they shared in common. He knew that, between the two of them, he was the one that stuck out like a sore thumb, and it wasn't because of any remarkable feats or traits. He had none. He'd just been lucky, really, to earn a place at Giuseppe's side at all, let alone become his friend and confidant. And more than that.

Some murmurings traveled up the table between the cigar-chewing mobsters as they waited on Giuseppe, and Marco let his gaze follow their voices in his own boredom, unnoticed. He'd never really stopped to appreciate how snazzy they all looked in their new suits, a far cry from how he'd seen them in Vinci's company whenever they visited his father's deli. This wasn't all that surprising though. Under Giuseppe, the mob had become scrupulous in how it presented itself in the eyes of competitors. Giuseppe's goal from the beginning had been to toughen up the mafia's weakened image, and that extended to every underboss and mafioso in the family. Gone were the lax dress code days of open chest hair, medallions, ugly polyester, and flower patterned dress shirts. All the flashy colors and extravagance-bragging Mos Vinci had encouraged were a thing of the past now, lest they be looked down on as a bunch of clowns.

The only thing left from those days was the very meeting room they were now seated in, as far as he could tell. The deep blue walls, a floor tiled in dark red, and varnished wooden accents such as the table gave the room a comfortable ambiance that didn't completely meet with the new stylistic renaissance. Some hanging lights lit the area in a purposefully dim manner, probably to hide the glaring fact. Otherwise, earth tones, grays, whites, blacks, were in full force now and prevalent in how he and the others mafiosos suited up.

Then again, this could have also been the times and trends changing right under Marco's nose. The seventies were sputtering to an end, last he'd check. The past year alone had flown by for him. He'd blinked, and suddenly he'd risen from the bottom of the gutter all the way up to Giuseppe's side. Maybe the universe or the Legendaries had grown impatient and just shoved him along to this point in time before he'd known what was what.

"You know why he's keeping us waiting, don't you?"

Marco turned his head, his body with it when he realized the middle-aged underboss to his right, Ignazio Salvador, had whispered the question at him. He regarded the stocky, hairy man with sideburns with a flat expression. The mobster had been on his ass lately about keeping Giuseppe on his toes. Ignazio definitely had good intentions, and he respected Marco, but he also knew that Marco was close to Giuseppe, and constantly saw that as an opening to make his opinions heard.

Marco, in turn, respected Ignazio, if only because the other man likely knew the full nature of his relationship with Giuseppe and still kept quiet about it. Marco once suspected he would use the knowledge to leverage something out of him, but fortunately, that danger never reared its ugly head. Ignazio wasn't interested in blackmail, but he genuinely, passionately cared about the future of the family and the business. He'd lived through Calypso's reign. He'd lived through Vinci and the disastrous fallout of the empty promises made by Torino prior to shedding its skin and unleashing the Rocket Empire. He'd seen too much to just roll over and turn a blind eye to Giuseppe.

Even so, Marco understood there was a time and a place for everything. "Not now," he muttered to the mobster with a straightening of his posture. "We'll talk later."

Ignazio opened his mouth to protest but just as quickly shut it. Marco felt the reason why before even looking. The air had become hot, stuffy; and the room suddenly fell quiet, causing Giuseppe to glance behind his shoulder. Marco felt his stomach twist up as he followed the kingpin's eyes to the double doors where a tall, bipedal Pokémon shaped like a flame slowly entered the room, a light grin flashing beneath her snout.

Marco frowned when she came to stand beside Giuseppe, the torch in her hand making him wary, as always. He wasn't a cultured or scholarly fellow, given his lowly upbringing, but he'd recently rifled through Giuseppe's book collection just to learn this Pokémon's name and origin. It was apparently a Delphox—some Fire-Type Pokémon from the Kalos Region. This one went by the name Rue, however, and had supposedly traveled overseas just to serve Giuseppe.

As if that in itself wasn't suspect, she had quickly gone from silent and observant to now rarely ever leaving Giuseppe's side. Marco didn't like this, partly because he couldn't be alone with Giuseppe as often as they liked; but also because he didn't trust her. She often claimed to have visions and whatnot of Giuseppe fulfilling some grand destiny, yet details and proof of such prophecies seemed to be foreign concepts to her. In Marco's mind, she was just a needless distraction. The problem was that Giuseppe was neither sending nor caging this distraction away like many in family had expected him to. Until she'd appeared, Giuseppe had never been one to lose focus, not once.

Marcos wasn't dumb though. Even if he didn't have Rue's end-game pegged yet, he knew what path she intended to take. He knew she was trying to nudge them all into a violent conflict—with Giuseppe's estranged mother, of all people. Madame Boss. It made sense on some level, given that the Rocket Gang was the only real threat to the Saffron Mafia's future. And sure, the plan to seek retribution against the usurpers of the criminal underworld had always been Giuseppe's; but this Pokémon was pushing for action a lot sooner than any of them were ready for.

"You did not need to wait on my account," Rue spoke, her dark, rich voice reaching everyone telepathically.

Giuseppe didn't meet her gaze, his explanation quick and curt. "I want all of my associates present. They deserve to know what the future holds. Nothing more to it."

"I already know the future," Rue said self-assuredly, smirking down at the kingpin. The words made Marco tense a bit. He didn't like the way she smiled at his friend either, amongst other things; but he was wise enough to keep his mouth shut about it like usual. He could never dishonor Giuseppe in front of his men. If he had something to say, he would wait until they were alone.

Giuseppe didn't answer her this time, instead motioning to the scribe. "Go on," he prompted; his voice was that of a well-educated leader: strong, controlled, and aloof. "Let's hear what you came up with. And be sure to speak up."

The scribe cleared his throat and, as instructed, began to read the draft of the letter out loud; Marco was eager to hear it himself and find out just how much more of a punch it packed than the ones before it.

"'To my beloved mother, your Rocket Gang has demonstrated itself to be'—'"

"She isn't my beloved mother," Giuseppe interrupted flatly, glaring at him. "I don't love her. She doesn't love me."

The scribe blinked at the kingpin. "It's... really just a harmless a courtesy, sir."

Giuseppe shook his head, stubborn but attentive to detail, as always. "Courtesy or not, it's a lie. Remove it."

The clerk nodded, frantically scribbling out the line in question. He paused before fixing the error, glancing up at Giuseppe. "'To… Madame Boss'?" he suggested. Once he was given the nod of approval, he jotted it down and cleared his throat again to read the rest. "'To Madame Boss, your Rocket Gang has demonstrated itself to be a collection of thieves slowly building its enterprise off the earnings of harder working men'—'"

"Imitators, not thieves," Giuseppe stopped him yet again, much to Marco's withheld amusement. "Call them what they are."

The scribe hurried to amend the error much like the last one before picking up where he left off. "Ah… 'has demonstrated itself to be a collection of imitators'—"

"Make it 'skilled imitators'," Giuseppe muttered. "Whatever they're guilty of, they're not without their merits."

"Err… 'a collection of _skilled_ imitators slowly building its enterprise off the earnings of harder working men. That said, I, Giuseppe Depiro, hereby respectfully request that all and any inheritance'—"

Giuseppe shook his head, rendering the man silent again. "There's nothing to request. I am _demanding_ what is mine by right, not _requesting_."

"That kind of wording might ruffle some feathers," one of the underbosses near Marco admonished. Marco already knew it wasn't a concern though.

"Then let it," the kingpin bit out flatly. He reached forward, gently poking the top corner of the letter. "I'm not interested in making friends or mending barriers. Write the brutal honest truth."

After making the final touches, the scribe clicked away his pen and carried on reading. "'I, Giuseppe Depiro, hereby respectfully demand that all and any inheritance owed to me be paid in earnest, along with all the riches, provisions, and properties promised to the Saffron Crime Family by the now defunct Torino as reimbursement for its past loyalty. If these reparations are not met, the Saffron Mafia and its branches will be forced to take extreme measures, which'…"

"Which would compromise the Rocket Gang's longevity in the criminal underworld," Giuseppe voiced the unwritten conclusion when the scribe trailed off. There was no emotion in his voice—nothing to indicate the depth of his feeling, if any. No anger. No sorrow. No joy. He had himself under perfect control, and it filled Marco with a sensation of pride knowing he got to serve under someone so fearless.

"It just needs your signature, Don Giuseppe," the scribe squeaked beside him, tentatively holding up the letter. Marco pressed his smile back into a frown when the paper magically levitated out of the man's hands and landed gingerly into Giuseppe's, courtesy of Rue. The Pokémon apparently had no reservations about flexing her powers without any rhyme or reason to it. She was just spoon-feeding him more reasons to dislike her at this point.

As Giuseppe signed the letter and handed it back to his scribe to be finalized, Rue gently clapped his shoulder. "Your enemies have great fear of you, Giuseppe. But a piece of paper and some ink cannot win a war for you. It will only stall one."

"Then let this be the final letter." Giuseppe pressed the tips of his fingers together just below his cleft chin. His eyes flicked to the scribe a final time. "See that that these terms find their way to my mother by morning. If she either declines them or fails to respond within a day's time, we move to engage. I've given her more than enough time to cooperate as it as. I've no interest in playing games."

"Yes, sir," the scribe obeyed, scampering off to fulfill his wishes. The rest of them weren't exactly itching with that same eagerness though. It seemed the time for talking was fading and Giuseppe was, in fact, gearing up for an armed conflict with the Rocket Gang as so many of them had feared he would, Marco included.

Rue, perhaps sensing the change in the room, scanned up the table. "The Saffron Crime Family rests on the fringes of its former glory," she declared, doing her damn best to reassure them, even though Marco could see right through it. "It only requires one more good push, even if that necessitates some sacrifices."

Ignazio leaned in close to Marco, his voice a whisper again. "She has one ear. You have the other. And you know this is all so screwed up."

Marco swallowed. He almost didn't answer at first, but he knew Ignazio would just keep poking and prodding unless he stood his ground. "Giuseppe is godfather," he whispered firmly, unwilling to debate the fact. "We follow his lead, even if we don't like the path. He hasn't let us down yet. He's brought us this far, hasn't he?"

"Exactly why she needs to be stopped before she undoes it all!" the older mobster urged—hissed, really. "I mean, how soon before the others smell something fishy going on and mindless infighting breaks out?"

Marco kept his face turned to attention but responded out of that same immovable loyalty. "I don't serve the others. I serve Giuseppe."

"I do too, Marco," Ignazio said. "But look around. He's surrounded by cowards and yes-men. He trusts you, Marco. Just tell him the truth about her—"

At last, Marco swung his head around, glaring at Ignazio. "And what truth would that be? What do you expect me to say?"

The next voice to speak belonged to Giuseppe, and it was pointed at them.

"Why are we whispering?"

Ignazio quickly turned his head to focus, Marco following in suit.

"They speak ill of me," proclaimed Rue, glaring at the two of them. How the hell had she overheard them?

Marco was ready to, at the very least, own up to disrupting the meeting. He didn't want to hash it out with this strange, foreign priestess in front of everyone. He didn't want to disrespect Giuseppe, or worse yet, disappoint him. But then again, he feared he may have already. If only Ignazio had kept his damn mouth zipped...

Ignazio's chair legs scraped against the linoleum when he stood suddenly, even as Marco realized as much and tried to anchor him by his sleeve. Ignazio didn't care though. He was glaring now, right at Rue, totally unafraid. This wasn't going to end well.

"Maybe I did," the mobster spat in reply to the Delphox.

"Ignazio, sit down," Marco urged out of the corner of his mouth, still tugging at the other man's sleeve cuff. "This isn't the way."

Giuseppe must have caught on. He held up his palm for Marco to back off, his voice monotone and stern. "No. Let him speak his piece."

Slowly, Marco let go of his associate. He'd have been a damn fool not to at this point.

Rue elevated her snout, flashing a closed-mouth smirk at the mobster still refusing to sit back down. "Yes, speak your mind, Ignazio," encouraged the priestess Pokémon as she began to chart a path around the table. "Whatever it is you feel compelled to say about me can be said to my face."

Ignazio visibly flinched when he saw Rue making her way toward him, but he forced his gaze to Giuseppe. "Meaning all respect, Don Giuseppe, sir," he began, raising an accusing finger at the approaching Delphox, "but this Pokémon—this witch—is going to drag us into a war we don't even know we can win!"

Giuseppe said nothing. He just sat there, stone-faced and listening. Marco wished he could peer into his mind and see what he was thinking.

"We were a laughing stock after the Rockets left us high and dry," continued Ignazio. "But then you came into your birthright. And in just two short years you won back our integrity, our moxy!" His pointer finger flew back in Rue's direction. "Now she's going to rip it all away and put us right back where we started—with nothing!"

The Delphox drew to a halt some feet away from Ignazio, frowning, almost in a pitying way. "You poor, misguided man. I am only here to help guide our leader to victory."

Ignazio flared up, face turning as red as a Charmeleon's. "No, you're here to twist his mind until he can't think for himself! You and your fancy magic and fancy fire tricks don't belong here! You belong on the curb—no, inside a cage! Everyone at this table is thinking it but is too chicken to say it!"

Rue brought up her flaming stick, gently waving it back and forth in front of her, a challenge Marco hoped Ignazio wouldn't play into. Calmly, she whispered, "If you want to stop me, then stop me."

With those words uttered, all eyes at the table fell upon Ignazio, waiting to see what he'd do. Marco, however, looked pleadingly toward Giuseppe. The kingpin never met his gaze though; he was patiently waiting out the tension choking the room like everyone else.

When Ignazio's hand snapped to his belt, Rue didn't flinch. She just watched quietly as he tore the Pokéball from his waist and held it out in front of him, presumably to set his Pokémon free.

But the device didn't respond.

"What the—" Ignazio shook the ball, a jerking motion that quickly became frantic. Even then, nothing. Marco understood though. She'd used her psychic powers to deactivate it.

"Is something the matter?" Rue asked innocently, causing Ignazio to chuck the Pokéball aside in a fit of rage. As all this was happening, Marco anxiously rubbed his hand through his own hair and down the back of his neck, fidgeting against his will. He couldn't stomach to let this go any further, and when he looked to Giuseppe again, he found his voice this time.

"Look, Boss, I think—"

"Ignazio has disrespected you, Giuseppe," Rue interrupted softly, giving Marco no quarter. "No sin should go unpunished. Do you not agree?"

Giuseppe's voice was low and measured, but sincere. "I don't care about respect. Only loyalty." Slowly, the tall, imposing teenager rose out of his seat, looking past Marco and upon the bitter underboss. "I will ask you this just once, Ignazio. Can I trust in your absolute loyalty?"

Ignazio went abruptly still. He tore his gaze from Rue, swallowing hard. He seemed to be considering his answer, his situation—at least, Marco hoped he was.

Finally, he let his anger go with an exhale. "You can, Don Giuseppe," he whispered. "I am loyal to you always."

Marco smiled, relief filling him—until he noticed Ignazio's hand slowly disappearing inside his jacket.

"And that is why I must do _this_!" A dagger flashed in Ignazio's hand before Marco could react, and in the next instant, it was airborne, the blade's tip rushing toward Rue's throat.

Then the dagger froze mid-air, just an inch shy of the smirking Delphox. Inexplicably, the blade suddenly caught fire, spooking everyone out of their chairs. The damn thing hadn't even touched the burning stick she was grasping. Marco had never known a Pokémon, let alone any being, to make an object spontaneously combust.

What sort of witchcraft was this?

Rue's fingers twitched, and the floating, flaming dagger turned back toward Ignazio. Marco looked away, hearing the blade whistle past his head one moment and then thud of Ignazio's body hitting the floor the next.

The stench of burning flesh wafted over the table afterward, hitting Marco's nostrils the hardest as he was closest to the corpse. Giuseppe, meanwhile, sat back down as if nothing happened; Marco wasn't buying it this time though. Behind that solemn, brooding pair of eyes was a boy grappling with despair, maybe even remorse. He was a ruthless gangster, and a damn good one, having kept the mob alive through sheer will; but he was still a teenage kid just like him and he wasn't without at least a shred of empathy. Ignazio had been loyal to Giuseppe's family for years, so Marco could only imagine how much this demonstration of Rue's had shaken the young kingpin underneath that all that tough skin.

Eventually, Marco worked up the courage to glance over his shoulder. While he couldn't bring himself to look down upon Ignazio, he did let his gaze follow Rue as she calmly strode past him to stand over the burning corpse. The air was still hot, but Marco somehow felt cold now. There was just something in her eyes, something evil.

"Be at rest now, old man," the Pokémon cooed, holding her stick over the body to collect the embers before they could spread. "Be at peace as the fire burns your sins away."

* * *

With a defeated gargle, Cloyster dropped to the hard terrain of the Viridian Gym like a stone, the arena shuddering from the impact. Gio couldn't help but smirk from his overhead balcony. It had taken a Raichu, a Venusaur, and finally a Hitmonchan to bring only the first of his Pokémon to its knees.

"How do you like that?" Gio's cocky ten-year-old opponent shouted from below, fisting the air as if he'd already won. The poor kid probably thought he was the next Pokémon League Champion in the making.

Even so, Gio decided to indulge him. "Not too shabby," he admitted, calling Cloyster back to its Pokéball. He unclipped the second ball from his jacket and let it fly. "Now let's see you try your luck with this one."

He'd said it without even knowing which Pokémon he'd sent out, not that it mattered. The match was already decided; they were just pointlessly spinning wheels now. The kid was down to his last Pokémon and Gio still had two ripe for a fight.

Scizor emerged from the radiant white energy as it splashed onto the battlefield. The boy across the arena flinched, clearly unfamiliar with the species.

Before Gio could issue a command, a light from the outside spilled over the Gym grounds. Gio squinted past the Trainer to find Ariana escorting a strange woman clutching clipboard into the building. Whoever she was, she carried herself confidently with an air of strong authority that rubbed Gio the wrong way.

The sound of the doors latching shut behind them finally broke Gio from his trance, and he snapped his fingers to grab Scizor's attention. "Start with Quick Attack!"

"Parry with Mega Punch!" the boy hollered to his Hitmonchan.

As the two Pokémon rushed to exchange blows, Gio chanced another quick glance at the woman now observing the battle off to the side. Ariana was no longer tending to her, and her expression was that of someone determined to accomplish a task. Whether that was good or bad for Gio was anyone's guess, though he had to assume the latter, given the ice in her eyes as she soaked in her surroundings and scribbled rigorously into her clipboard.

Who did this lady think she was barging in on him in the middle of a Gym Battle?

Suddenly Ariana was with him on the balcony, leaning over his shoulder. "You probably noticed we have company," she whispered, apparently just as annoyed by the unwanted loafer as he was. "Must be some PLC snob."

Gio nodded, saying nothing, and returned his focus to the battle. If the lady wanted a show, he'd give her one. "Scizor, use Swords Dance!"

Crossing its claws over its chest, Scizor stood unfettered against Hitmonchan's wrath, slipping into a deep focus. The opponent's flurry of punches more or less bounced right off Scizor, a perk that came with a ridiculously high defense stat after two long journeys and two whole years of feeding off experience from Gym Battling.

The ground beneath Scizor spat out a pillar of red aura, infusing the Pokémon with a surplus of strength that would close out the match in short order. This old routine had become second nature to Gio; even if Gym Battles didn't satisfy that unscratchable itch anymore, he always made it a point to dazzle on his opponents, give them something to remember and maybe aspire to.

"Scizor," Gio said calmly, pointing. "Use Aerial Ace and let's be done with this already."

Before the kid could predictably shout for his Hitmonchan to dodge, it was already over. Scizor had clipped upward one instant, then executed a killing blow the next from a clean diagonal angle, smacking Hitmonchan flat into the earth.

"The match is over," Ariana announced unceremoniously from beside Gio, holding up a tiny mirror to her face and applying red lipstick to her lips. "The Gym Leader wins. The challenger loses. Yada, yada, yada. Better luck next time."

Below, the Trainer rushed over to comfort his fallen Pokémon and give it the usual empty praises, a tired consolation prize Gio remembered spewing time and time again during his own journeys. It wasn't without its uses, of course; it made the Pokémon feel better, usually. But the sting of the loss never truly went away. There had been so many times Gio wanted to vent his failures and scream to the top of his lungs, yet he'd filtered himself at every turn, ashamed to show that side of himself to Delia and Samuel and Spencer.

And to complete strangers, even.

Remembering his uninvited guest, Gio recalled Scizor and turned irascible eyes to the woman pacing up and down the sidelines, scrutinizing every little detail of his Gym. He turned to exit the viewing the balcony and start down the staircase, setting a brisk pace as Ariana speedily clicked after him. When he emerged below, his challenger had already departed with his Pokémon, leaving just one nuisance nosing around the premises after hours.

"If you were hoping for a Gym match, you'll have to come back in the morning," he addressed her, keeping his voice low and neutral, at least for the moment. "I was just about to lock up."

"Do I strike you as a ten-year-old?" she clipped back, whipping around to face him. Like Ariana had posited, the woman had 'government' written all over her, from her grey pantsuit to her tightly bunned hair. She was young, though, with an energy to her; her eyes were alert and her pale neck stood out boldly to get right in his face.

After taking pause, he scraped together a dignified but witty answer. "Trainers of all ages are welcome to challenge me. I don't discriminate."

"I'm not a Trainer," she said absently, shouldering past him to examine more of the Gym and scribble down more words. "I'm an inspector sent on behalf of the Pokémon Association to make sure this Gym of yours is adhering to official regulations."

Gio glared at her from behind, but couldn't get a word in before Ariana butted in. "Oh, is that so?" she challenged the other woman, planting her hands on her hips. "How about showing us some ID?"

The woman didn't miss a beat, twisting on her heel and producing a government badge from what could have easily been thin air. Gio frowned. The fact that she was the real deal somehow made her even more of an irritant.

"Narissa Amado," Ariana spoke the name on the badge, squinting at it suspiciously. "Pfft. This could easily be fake."

The woman chuffed out a laugh without humor. "Who might you be again? His secretary?"

The last word made Ariana's jaw set so tightly Gio was afraid her teeth might splinter. "Listen, sister," she growled, her finger jabbing the air to punctuate her words. "I happen to be Mr. Sakaki's business associate—"

"She helps manage my affairs," Gio spoke over her. Going along with that, Ariana smiled tightly and stuck out her hand to Narissa.

"Ariana Phate is the name," she introduced herself.

"Daughter of the famous lawyer," the inspector replied, a bored statement more than a question. She then jotted into her clipboard, possibly just to get on the other woman's nerves.

It worked. "That's right, sister, so if you give my associate here any trouble, you'll be facing litigation out the—"

Gio turned to her sharply. "Ariana, I can handle this."

With a snort, Ariana whipped her head away, then her body, before marching off in a huff; one less mouth for him to answer for, at least.

As the nosy inspector began to cover more ground, Gio didn't miss a beat and stayed right at her heels. "You won't find anything wrong with my Gym. It's running just fine."

"I'll be the judge of that, if you don't mind."

"Suit yourself," he muttered, attempting to hide his scowl. He knew she wouldn't find anything out of the ordinary, nor anything incriminating. The Pokémon his gang had rounded up for the week had already been shipped off to Team Rocket. Besides, she had no warrant to inspect his garage in back, as that was officially devoted to his auto repair business, totally unrelated to his Gym Leader duties.

No, what bugged him was that she was keeping him on the clock. He wanted to get home, spruce up the place for his upcoming weekend with Delia. Legendaries, he just wanted to hold her in his arms again after so many weeks apart from her, press her close. She was the link to humanity he needed to feel grounded and quiet and happy—and able to deal with nonsense like this.

Once Narissa eventually finished her indoor rounds, she stepped outside and brought her inspection to the foregrounds of the Gym. He followed her at every step as she drank in the aptly maintained and gardened property, keeping his hands in his pockets to show just how casual he felt. If the trimmed hedges and the clean fountains nestled between the twin staircases were impressing her, she wasn't letting it show, still doing her best impression of a Claydol.

"So is this some new push by the Military Government to put Gym Leaders on a shorter leash?" he asked once he'd grown bored of the silent treatment.

She took a moment to jot something down before answering. "The Military Government now works in junction with the Pokémon Association. So, yes, regulation enforcement is going to be a bit tighter."

"At my inconvenience," he muttered.

"We would never want to inconvenience you, Mr. Sakaki," she said, though the words were hard to take to heart when she wouldn't even look him in the eye. He couldn't help but snort.

"And yet I only make back half the investment on all the upkeep I do around here."

This time she pinned him with a firm glare. "The Pokémon League still licks its wounds after a near-irreparable government crisis, yet you feel you're owed a bigger paycheck? You should count yourself fortunate you're employed at all."

Gio considered her words, a retort already ready on his tongue, but he didn't wish to argue and drag more scrutiny over himself. If any part of him _did_ feel owed some debt, though, it was only because the aforementioned government was still intact _at all_ due to his life-staking actions two years prior. He'd brought down the Rocket Empire and more or less saved the world under everyone's noses.

Not that he expected anyone to remember any of that. Giovanni Ketchum was dead, after all. And he couldn't take credit from a dead person.

Her inspection must have reached its conclusion because she was walking out through the gates and off the property, not even giving him notice. He pursued her, locking the gates shut behind them. Ariana would leave through the back once she was done in the office, he figured. His main concern was making sure no more uninvited faces could just waltz through his place of business.

"If finances are truly a concern, perhaps you should rethink your budgeting," Narissa remarked, staring at Diamond Dust, which he'd left parked at the curb.

He bristled a bit at the implied insult. "I'm not entitled to transportation?"

She shrugged. "Your residence is located only a few blocks from here, is it not? I am, of course, referring to that beautiful, luxurious estate listed under your name."

"I inherited it, if that's what you're getting at," he cleared up quickly, moving toward his bike.

"From the late Rita Ketchum?" she asked, something akin to interest in her tone as she watched him. "She had a son that died as well, didn't see?"

He mimicked her shrug from her earlier, zipping up his leather jacket for the brisk ride home and stretching his leather gloves over his hands. "If that's what the official record shows, I guess that's what happened."

She overlooked his vague response, again turning to his motorcycle. "Since avoiding inconvenience is so important to you, I advise you dispose of this thing. Reports of a phantom biker gang calling themselves Team Righteous and causing trouble around these parts have been circulating. It would be a pity if someone suspected you of some kind of... involvement."

He spat out a mirthless laugh, seeing right through her words. "I'm going to take a wild shot in the dark and guess that _someone_ is you."

She gave a sigh, though there was no hiding the amusement in her eyes. "Viridian City is my home every bit as much as it is yours, so I make it a point pay close observation to anything suspicious around here."

Gio glared. "I'm not affiliated with Team Righteous."

"I never said you were."

"No, but you're thinking it," he grumbled, furiously snatching the helmet hanging off the bike's handgrip. "If you have something you want to say, come out with it already because I'm not sticking around."

She was silent for a moment, then straightened. "Alright, then," she huffed. "Pallet Town was targeted just last night in the latest of many Pokénapping incidents. And you're the only registered motorcyclist within ten miles of Pallet, not counting Officer Jenny. Forgive me, but sometimes coincidences are just too incredible to believe."

Shaking his head, Gio retorted, "And sometimes coincidences are just coincidences." A bit of that edge had returned to his voice but he stomped it down, exhaling slowly. "Look, I was nowhere near Pallet Town last night. I was here at the Gym working late. You can confirm with my assistant. If that isn't enough, I have security cameras set up outside my office. You can review the footage yourself."

"That's a policeman's job, not mine," she answered evenly. "I'm only a government inspector."

He smiled so tight it was almost a grimace. "Then start acting the part or maybe _I'll_ report _you_ for harassment."

They stood staring each other down for a bit before she backed off with a curt nod. He took this as his cue to leave and shoved his helmet over his head. He waited for her to start back toward her car and then hopped up on Diamond Dust. Legendaries, he needed to ride right now. Hard. Fast. If he didn't, he was going to explode on someone.

Damn it, why couldn't it just be the weekend already?

He was about to start up the engine when he noticed Narissa slowing her pace, as if something was occurring to her. Then, she twisted around to face him again.

"Many people have forgotten the Ketchums," she uttered, catching him off guard, "but I have a daughter who hasn't."

Gio slowly leaned back on his seat, still gripping the handlebars, but listening.

"She was just five when she heard about a heroic teenage boy who risked his life to protect the citizens of Pallet Town from a maniac," she pressed on, a fond smile touching her lips. "I still remember the way her face lit up that day. And it didn't end there. She followed his adventures through the Johto Region, listened to all the stories about the Pokémon he'd befriended and all the wicked people he'd overcome. Even when that whole Rocket Empire scare took the world by storm, she never once left the radio. She believed that boy would save the day, Pokéball in hand. And by some unexplained miracle, the day _was_ saved."

Gio swallowed, looking away for a second.

"You can see now why I don't believe in coincidences," she remarked, and only then did he meet her eyes.

"Get to the point," he grumbled under his helmet.

She stepped closer, hugging her clipboard to her chest with affection he hadn't know she was capable of. "That boy gave her hope, and courage," she explained. "She turned ten just recently, received a Bulbasaur as her first Pokémon after deciding she wanted to become a Trainer and see the world just like he did."

Gio let his guard down, and bit. "Then what's stopping her?"

She paused, dipping her head. "Her Bulbasaur was taken from her by Team Righteous. Nabbed right out of her arms while she was out playing."

The words touched something deep inside of him, forcing his eyes to retreat to his gloved hands, clenching and unclenching the handlebars. If there was something he was meant to say or apologize for, he couldn't find the words. He couldn't afford to.

"If that Ketchum boy fought to make the world a safer place for my daughter, why must she still live in fear?" she asked, and he knew the question wasn't rhetorical. It was meant for him.

He eventually glanced up, but still, he didn't speak. She must have expected as much because she was already clearing her throat and gathering herself.

"Your Gym meets the necessary permit requirements," she bid, her voice back to its initial cool, professional timbre. "Good day, Mr. Sakaki."

With that, she went on her way, leaving him to stew in her guilt trip. He wanted to hate her for it, but the boy inside himself wouldn't allow it. So he had to check himself, and remember why he'd formed Team Righteous in the first place. He'd done it to protect Delia and the others… but if he and his gang were becoming the very thing he'd sworn to defend them from, what was the point? If they were just as bad as Team Rocket now, how was he any different from his mother?

No, he couldn't be like her. He wouldn't. He had his demons, he'd been shown as much, but he would keep them under his thumb for as long as he still had the fight in him. For Delia's sake, if nothing else.

Shoving the key in the ignition, he peeled away from the Gym and sped into the city to cool his head for a while.

* * *

The Pallet House was dead by sundown, but as Delia came out from the kitchen to make her rounds and collect the various bills left behind, she was pleasantly surprised to find a friendly, familiar face seated at the end of the counter. His beach brown hair swept marginally over his bookish blue eyes as he spaced out into the wooden countertop, his head almost sinking into the collar of his lab coat.

"Professor?" she chirped, smiling as she moved behind the counter. He looked up, waking from whatever daze he'd fallen into.

"Oh, hello, Delia," Samuel Oak greeted back, a chuckle in his voice. "Sorry, I was lost in thought for a moment there."

She giggled. "What are you doing here? It's not like you to visit, what with your busy schedule."

He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the diner briefly, then sighed and turned his head forward again. "Tucker didn't happen to come by here earlier, did he?"

She cocked her head, frowning. "No, I haven't seen him."

"Well that makes two of us," the young professor sighed, a hint of exasperation in his voice; he seemed tired, overworked. "He hasn't come home from school, is all."

She furrowed a brow and turned to reach over the warmer to grab a pot of coffee. "Really? I could have sworn I spotted the school bus go by earlier."

He rubbed his face again, hard, as if to wrestle the sleep from his eyes. "Well if he wasn't on the bus, I think I have a pretty good idea where he is."

Delia suspected she did too, though it didn't need to be spoken, as it was a touchy subject. Instead, she slid an empty mug toward her old friend, sighing, "Well, as long as you're waiting..." She filled his mug, spawning a small pillar of coffee steam between them. "It's on the house. You definitely look like you need it."

"How very kind of you," he said, chortling, before reaching into his coat pocket and spotting her a small but generous wad of Pokédollars. "But I insist. You work hard too. You deserve it."

"Thank you, Sam," she said, returning the smile and graciously collecting the payment, tucking it into her apron. She didn't like accepting money from friends, but she'd barely made anything in the last few days. She needed something to show for all her hard work if her mother was ever going to let her leave town to visit Gio over the weekend.

And even _that_ still seemed like a lifetime away.

"You seem out of sorts, Delia," Samuel noted. "Is everything alright?"

Delia perked up, smiling and turning to set the pot back on the warmer. "Oh, you know, the usual."

He nursed his mug, eyeing her carefully. "Have you been to see Gio lately?"

"In a few days," she huffed, leaning into the counter to rest her weight on her arms. "That's why I've been working double shifts this week. I figure it might make up for any lost wages this weekend on my account."

He nodded, holding up his mug just a fraction. "Do give him my best," he murmured, despite that distracted look returning to his eyes.

She frowned. "I must not be the only one out of sorts."

His eyes flashed up to hers, and he quickly shook his head, trying to dispel her worries. "Oh, it's nothing. It's just... Tucker."

"What about him?"

A laugh fell from his lips, but it was a soft noise without humor. "He's growing up much faster than I was ready for, is all." He picked his mug back up but didn't drink, just let it warm his hands. "I thought the years would have tempered him, but he's still so… rambunctious. So eager to leave the nest."

Delia shook her head with a small giggle, understanding now. "He doesn't want to leave the nest, Professor. He just wants a little taste of adventure, is all. What boy doesn't dream of becoming a Pokémon Trainer? You know, I remember you being the first one to push Gio and I into exploring the Johto Region."

"Yes, and I remember almost losing the two of you to the dangers you faced," he pointed out, sighing. "When you become a parent, you'll understand."

She gave him a lopsided smile. "You don't have to be a parent to worry about someone. Trust me."

* * *

As Gio pulled up to his home following his joyride, he wasn't all that surprised to find Tucker Oak sitting patiently against the manor gates, clad in his school uniform and hunched over a backpack two thirds his size in his lap. This kid just never quit. It was past sundown, and the twelve-year-old apparently wasn't beneath camping out on the sidewalk if it meant waiting up for Gio.

Sighing, Gio eased down on the breaks as he pulled up to the gates. The sound of the motors alerted the young boy to his presence, and he rose to his feet, glowing at first but quickly toning down the expression to something more sheepish when Gio removed his helmet and revealed his heavy gaze.

"Uh… hey, Gio," was all the greeting the young Oak could muster, flashing that coy, dimpled smile and rubbing behind his dirty blonde curls, as if he'd just accidentally ended up there without realizing.

"Surprised you haven't had your own key made yet," Gio remarked wittily in lieu of a lecture. Sure, he wanted to tell him off for showing up announced, again, especially on top of everything else he had to deal with. He wanted to lay into him, raise his voice… but he just couldn't bring himself to. Every time he looked at Tucker, different instincts took over. The kid was the picture of innocence, reminding Gio of himself some years back.

Tucker shrunk just slightly into his shoulders, tugging uneasily at the collar of his uniform. "You're not mad, are ya?"

Clicking his tongue, Gio glanced over his shoulder, then back at Tucker again. "What happened? Miss your bus?"

"Not exactly." The boy's grin was as guilty as it was mischievous.

Gio elevated a brow. "Want to talk about it?"

"Um... is it mandatory?"

Snorting a laugh, Gio drew up his shoulders into a shrug. "Hey, if you're going to keep crashing here every so often, that's my price of admission."

With a resigned huff, the boy nodded, giving in. Gio couldn't help the smirk pulling at his lips, and he extended his helmet to the kid. "Come on, hop on."

* * *

Gio cracked open his beer with a long, winded sigh, and finally sauntered onto the front porch to join Tucker on the steps. Meowth followed behind him, having spent the day away from the Gym to keep an eye on the mansion.

"Can I have a sip?" asked Tucker excitedly, pointing up at the adult beverage.

Gio smirked. "Sure, when Digletts fly," he quipped, handing the kid a soda pop instead and plopping down next to him.

"Cheers," Gio said, clunking his can awkwardly against Tucker's bottle and then twisting left to do the same against Meowth's charm since there was nothing else on the Pokémon to clank. The three of them together had mastered the art of just kicking back beneath the stars, swapping war stories and pretending life was as perfect the rest of the world made it out to be these days.

"What are we toasting?" Tucker laughed snarkily, taking a long swig of his soda and drumming his heels against the bottom step of the porch.

Gio shrugged when nothing leapt to mind. "New beginnings, I guess."

"Don't much feel like celebrating that," the much younger boy mumbled, tilting his head back on his shoulders to stare into the starlit abyss. Gio downed half his can, all the while searching the other's face, recognizing the oppressed look. The look of a prisoner. He'd worn that look, too, a long time ago.

Smirking again, Gio reached out and playfully pushed at the side of the boy's wispy, blonde head. "Come on, Tucker. Today was only your second day at the academy. How bad could it have been?"

"Try second _year_ ," the twelve-year-old grumbled back. "And anyways, it's not just that."

Gio sucked in a hard breath. "Let me guess: your father?"

Tucker nodded, saying everything by not saying anything.

"Another fight?"

The boy licked his upper lip petulantly, and his voice cracked. "He treats me like I'm a kid, Gio!"

Gio almost laughed at how little the blonde thought that sentence through. "You _are_ a kid, last I checked."

"I just turned twelve! I'm practically a teenager!" Tucker slammed his bottle down beside him and was suddenly on his feet, as if to make a point. "He knows becoming a Pokémon Trainer is everything I've dreamed of since I was little and he still won't let me do it! It's not fair!"

"Fair?" Gio laughed the word into his beer can. "I didn't get my Trainer's license until I was fifteen, so settle down."

"Yeah, I guess," the boy ceded briefly, shrugging his small shoulders, "but things were different back then. It wasn't as safe. After the Pokémon League lowered the age requirement to ten, I thought I could finally leave town and see the world like you and Delia did." He snorted, digging his heel into the brick of the stairs. "Who was I kidding? Two years later and I'm stuck in some Pokémon prep school, learning about all the things I should be out there experiencing for myself."

Gio twisted his head, bringing his finger to scratch underneath Meowth's chin as he mulled over Tucker's words. He sympathized with him, really. He saw a lot of himself in the boy—the impatient, adventurous side that didn't want to be caged away, that was. Everything else that made Tucker who he was also made him all the more deserving than he had been at his age to go out and experience the world. Because even if Tucker wasn't without flaw, he was utterly without sin. He was pure, with a heart of gold, not a single mean bone in his body. He would make a far more worthy Pokémon Trainer in the long run.

With a huff, the boy loosened his uniform collar and tie and sat heavily on the bottom step of the porch. "I really thought this was going to be the year he'd change his mind, Gio. I really did."

"I know, pal," Gio murmured, trying to be consoling. "Tough break."

Tucker's golden head perked up then, and he glanced over his shoulder to shoot Gio a smile brimming with white teeth. "Hey, you know…. school only just started. It's not too late! Maybe you could talk to my dad and convince him—"

"Tucker," Gio tried to stop the idea before Tucker could run rampant with it.

"You're his friend, aren't you?" Tucker pressed, scrambling up the steps to sit next to the older boy again. "Heck, after everything you two went through together—"

"Things were different back then," he repeated Tucker's own words against him, the finality in his firm tone shutting the boy up real quick.

Tucker scrunched up his nose and frowned, his head falling in defeat. It bothered Gio that he couldn't be upfront with him, tell him why he and Sammy couldn't have a friendly conversation and hash things out. It bothered him, too, that Sammy, his former mentor and guardian, now looked down on him as a bad stain and influence on Tucker. Sammy would never say it out loud, of course, but Gio just knew, based on everything Tucker had told him of late.

"Look, he's probably just worried about sending you off on your own," Gio ended the tense silence, shifting gears a bit. The last thing he wanted was to turn Tucker against Sammy and reap those consequences later down the road.

Tucker huffed in frustration, pouting again. "I wouldn't be on my own though. I'd have Pokémon with me. And besides, he's totally fine sending other Trainers off on their own."

"They're… not his son," Gio pointed out, trying to find the right words. "It's just, you know, after what happened to your mother… he probably just doesn't want to lose you, is all. You can't blame him. Trust me, even with Torino gone, it's not as perfect out there as you'd think."

A tense moment passed before the boy spoke, and when he did, his voice was tight with remembered pain. "It's _because_ of my mom that I have to do this."

Gio exhaled wearily through his nostrils, nodding. "So you've been having those nightmares again."

Carefully, slowly, the blonde dragged his gaze down to his lap. "For the longest time, I couldn't figure out why I kept seeing her, why she'd keep coming to me in my dreams. But now I think I know." He lifted his head, meeting Gio's gaze. "She wanted for me to become a Trainer. She wanted for me to grow up like you. Heck, she made you my godfather, didn't she?"

Gio was ready to argue that... but wisely clamped his mouth shut, out of respect. He tried again, saying in a low whisper, "You don't want to grow up like me."

Tucker laughed that contagious laugh. "What are you talking about? You're a Gym Leader, for Articuno's sake!"

"Watch the language," Gio warned in a chuckle, before going off Tucker's point. "And believe me, it's not all it's cut out to be. You're still stuck in one place most of the time, doing the same thing day after day."

The younger boy dragged out a sigh. "It sounds like you're just trying to take my dad's side now."

"I'm not," Gio laughed, elbowing the boy gently. "Believe me, I know what it's like to feel trapped. My mother never let me leave this house growing up. She kept me under her thumb for most of my childhood, but that was for _her_ own good, for _her_ own image. Your dad isn't like my mom. He's selfless. If he's watching your every move, it's for _your_ own good, not his."

Tucker nodded, understanding, but still far from happy. "I know, I get that. It's just… maybe that's not what I want. Maybe I want more out my childhood than to be locked up inside a tech school. These are supposed to be the best years of my life, Gio, and I just keep getting bombarded by all this responsibility and schoolwork and boring stuff!"

Gio smirked into the rim of his beer as he brought it to his lips. "Sounds like you _are_ still a kid after all."

"Maybe." Tucker's voice tilted and drifted off, a telltale sign he was fast at work, the cogs in his mind spinning as he fought to think of something. "And maybe… that's the problem. I _am_ a kid, but I'm also _not_. I never get to _be_ one or act like one. I never get to have any fun. And maybe that's all I want. Maybe that's what my mom wanted for me. Is that so terrible?"

"Meeroow," Meowth chimed in, a yawn more than anything. Tucker ran with it, of course.

"See! Meowth agrees!" He shot to his feet, practically dancing with energy again. "And even if I do one day decide I want to become a Pokémon professor like my dad, shouldn't I get out there and start actually meeting Pokémon now while I'm still young? Getting some _actual_ experience? Those are the key ingredients for every Pokémon specialist!"

Gio reached out, gently snatching the boy's wrist before he could get carried away on another tangent. "I get it, Tucker. I do," he said, smiling. "But speaking as a guy who didn't have the luxury of growing up with a father, I think you should try appreciating where he's coming from. And maybe try having these conversations with _him_ once in a while instead of… well... me."

"Yeah, I know," the boy muttered, and quick as a whip, with a bright, bashful smile, he chuckled, "I guess I do sort of show up here unannounced a lot, huh?"

Gio said nothing, only smirked as he sucked down the last drops of his beer. This got a laugh out of the younger boy, who playfully punched his shoulder.

"Seriously, it was a lot easier when you still lived in Pallet with the rest of us," he rambled on, sitting back down. "I could see you almost every day back then."

Gio crushed the empty can in his fist, and chucked it aside. "Yeah, I know."

The twelve-year-old laid back on the porch, his legs hanging down the steps and his hands propped under his bushy head as his olive eyes darted over the constellations. "The only good part about enrolling in that stupid school is that it's right here in Viridian and I get to be near you."

Gio felt a laugh ripple in his chest, surfacing as a grin. He'd been selfish to try and keep his distance from Tucker, give Sam a reason to trust him again. But Tucker was like the kid brother he wished he'd always had growing up. And Tucker still looked up to him like a role model or a cool uncle, despite how much he'd drifted away from the shining pedestal everyone once held him up on. Really, Tucker was the only one besides Delia who could make Gio feel better as a person, make him forget all the bad for even just half a second.

And sometimes that half second made all the difference in the world.

"You should call your father and let him know where you are before he sends Officer Jenny out looking for you," Gio suggested quietly, snapping back to the present.

"Sure." Tucker sat upright, scratching at his shoulder and making with that bashful grin again. "Any chance you could give me a lift back to Pallet Town?"

"In the morning," Gio said, ruffling the boy's unruly hair as he rose to his feet. "You can crash here for the night—again."

"Awesome!" Tucker cheered, rising with him at twice the speed and energy.

"I hope you at least packed a toothbrush in your backpack this time."

"Sure did," the boy exclaimed triumphantly. As he turned toward the house to unpack, he stopped to point to Diamond Dust parked at the inner gate. "Probably better we don't ride into town on that thing at this hour anyway. People might think we're part of that biker gang."

Gio smirked. If only he knew.

"I'm not kidding, Gio," the boy insisted, his features warping into a serious expression that didn't suit him at all. "They've really been giving people a scare lately. If I had some Pokémon of my own, I'd set them straight. It's like they have nothing better to do than pick on Trainers and steal Pokémon for fun."

Gio leaned against the balustrade next to him, tugging absently at his gloves. "Maybe it's not for fun. Maybe they have a reason."

"There's no good reason to steal Pokémon," Tucker countered, his voice a cross between a chuckle and a snort. He really was too innocent, too naive, even for the world as it was now. It drove Gio crazy sometimes, yet he admired it at the same time.

Gio turned his head to smile weakly at Tucker. "Well, I wouldn't worry about them. Something tells me they might cool things down."

"What makes you say that?"

"Intuition, I guess," Gio replied, shrugging. There was nothing uncertain about his decision though. He would have to rein in his gang a bit, even if Team Rocket didn't like it. He couldn't let Narissa's story from earlier continue to haunt the noble Pokémon Trainer still living inside of him, carrying his conscience, sheltering it from the dark.

Tucker gave a yawn, stretching his skinny arms out to the side. "Well I hope you're intuition is right about more than just that," he said. "If my dad comes around and lets me have a Pokémon after all, I might just have to wash Diamond Dust for a month or something."

"Deal," Gio agreed on the spot, smirking. They laughed, and Tucker started back inside. Gio looked back toward the night sky, but heard the boy's footfalls stop in the doorway.

"Hey, Gio."

He turned his head, lifting a brow to Tucker.

"Do you ever miss it?"

"Miss what?"

The boy shrugged. "You said you don't get much freedom as a Gym Leader. Does that mean you miss the old days?"

Gio slid his hands into his pockets and wet his lips, scraping his mind for an answer. "All I can say," he began, pausing, "is that you're not stuck here alone, pal."

Tucker nodded, but it was a low, unsure one that made Gio chuckle deep in his throat. Finally, another yawn claimed the twelve-year-old. "Well, I'm bushed. Think I'll head in."

"Call your father," Gio reminded flatly, furrowing both brows to enforce the order.

"Aww, you just had to remind me, didn't you?" Tucker laughed, rubbing his eyes. He turned, stopping halfway to wave to Meowth. "Goodnight, Meowth! Sleep well!"

"Meeeerow!"

"Tucker," Gio uttered, the uncharacteristic crack in his own voice giving the boy pause. He swallowed, gathering himself before continuing. "Just… for the record, I'm glad you came here."

Tucker smiled sleepily at him, and then without a word disappeared into the house.

Gio remained put, passing a quick glance to Meowth. The Pokémon almost seemed to read all his thoughts with just one look alone. Meowth had been there with him when he'd reunited with Clint Ketchum, for a fleeting moment but in the flesh, back in the Distortion World. Yet Gio was constantly reliving that moment, questioning how real it had been, what it meant for him.

And now every time he encouraged Tucker to appreciate his father, the advice didn't sound any less selfish to his own ears. Because he almost always spoke it from that brief window of time he'd shared with his own father in that torn, sundered world, always wishing it could have been longer. His father was alive. He knew it. No one could tell him otherwise. He'd seen him with his own two eyes.

But they were worlds apart now. Clint Ketchum was trapped in one dimension, and Gio couldn't feel more alone in his own, constantly pressed in by a darkness nesting inside himself. Delia and Tucker were the only torches he had handy to keep it at bay, yet too often did it feel like they were just dying embers doomed to burn out, and it terrified him just thinking about what might happen when they finally did. What would that day look like for him?

"Father," he whispered into the night sky, his voice a rasp in his throat. "I'm losing myself. I need you."

* * *

The Grandmaster's chambers weren't exactly royal accommodations, but it was the perfect refuge for Aurora's recent problem, commanding a nice lookout view from the top of the Shadow Tower. Not that the White Cloaks—or any Cloaks, really—would care to wander this far out from the Under Region's capital. This zone belonged to the witches, after all, and few cared to get tangled up with their likes.

Aurora pulled more warm blankets over Jax's still form, one paw brushing his bruised forehead. "He hasn't said much. He keeps drifting in and out."

"His recovery will be a long one," answered a deep, well-mannered voice from across the room. She looked over her shoulder; opposite the bed where Jax rested was a reading desk and chair, and against the wall next to it was a tall bookcase filled with books where her master had wandered off to. He was a tall, wiry human; his silver hair was long and tied into braids and whiptails that brushed against his bright blue robes. His beard, too, dropped far, yet framed his face from around aged, withered lips. It was a strong face, not harsh but full of laughter and wisdom. The crow's feet at the corners of his sunken, yellow eyes, in all honesty, concealed his true age marvelously.

Pinned to the cusp of his robes, just beneath his neck, was the sigil of the Aura Guardians of old. She remembered once staring at it in bewilderment, clueless to the ancient background surrounding the honorable, medieval protectors of the Brethren Kingdoms. He'd opened those lost pages of history to her, instructed her in the ways of Aura Guardians and their ancient Ministry. She never would have imagined herself an inheritor of their legacy. If only the people of Paradise Kingdom could see her now...

Aurora turned her head forward again, her gaze traveling down to Jax's paralyzed bottom half. She frowned at the thought that came to her next. "I fear his legs may be…"

"He has his life," the Grandmaster spoke over her gently. "That is what matters. And he has you to thank for it. You did the right thing."

She set loose a shaky breath hearing that, and turned toward her mentor. "Brutis and the others might disagree."

The human slid a dusty old tome back into its rightful place on the shelf in front of him and then twisted around to regard her. "What they don't know won't harm them," he said, as if it were that simple.

"But what they do know _could_ harm me."

He shook his head, his great beard swaying left and right. "I have masked his Aura signature. The White Cloaks cannot trace him. And even if they could, Morbis would not let them act on it, not until speaking directly to me himself."

She swallowed, and threw another glance Jax's way. "I hope you're right, master."

He moved beside her, standing over the unconscious human's bedside. "Even so, it is paramount we avoid such contention and do what we can for this boy as quickly as we can. You searched his affects, I take it?"

Aurora nodded and knelt down to scoop up the damp, leather object she'd left tucked into the side of the mattress. "He had this wallet in his pocket."

The Grandmaster stared at it, stroking his beard. "I presume it contains identification of some kind?"

The wallet opened in her paws with a snap, and she gingerly pulled out a laminated card with his photo plastered on it. The corners were wet and muddy and crumpled, and the smeared words on it were just barely legible. "His name is Jaxton Titian," she read aloud, squinting. "Isn't that the son of Ryker Titian?"

The Grandmaster hummed. "It is."

"Ryker Titian is a public icon," she said, looking up to meet her elder's ponderous gaze. "How did his son end up in the company of a bunch of mercenaries?"

He didn't respond posthaste, first charting a path back behind his desk. "Children act out and revolt in many different ways for many different reasons."

"You believe Ryker's strict parenting turned his son into a rebel?" she inquired, following her master's movement across the chamber.

"That is not for us to say," he replied in rumbling baritone. He assumed his seat behind the wicker desk and motioned to the bedridden boy. "Our only concern is making this damaged spirit whole once more."

She nodded, clasping the talisman around her neck, inhaling and exhaling slowly. "Of course. All life is precious. The way of the Aura Guardian."

He chuckled once, then his face lighted with a fond smile. "One does not need to be an Aura Guardian to preach or practice those words. Or a Seer. But seeing as you are both, I would say the boy is in good hands."

Aurora offered a smile in return, humbled by his plaudits, but it slipped as she walked back toward the occupied bed. "I've done all I can to alleviate his injuries. The Coalition has the means and technology to restore him to full health, I suspect, but I couldn't possibly go behind their backs."

"Nor should you," the Grandmaster warned. "Everything will be under tighter lockdown now that the Lustrous Orb has been stolen. The risk is not worth your life nor his."

She sighed softly. "Then I suppose he's stable enough to return to the surface and receive further medical care there."

"As he is now, he cannot go back."

Aurora whipped her head around at her master, taken aback by the statement.

He slowly held up his palms, as if to ease her fairly obvious concern for the boy. "His memory of what happened will most assuredly remain with him. There is no guarantee he will stay quiet. Even if those on the surface do not believe what he has to say, the Coalition has eyes and ears everywhere. They would follow the breadcrumbs and find you and I at the end of the trail, but not before first destroying poor Jaxton here."

She managed a small nod. "I figured all that from the beginning. That was why I brought him directly here."

"A wise decision," he recognized, but a frown was etched into his mouth. "Of course, now we must settle upon another decision. It may be in our best interest to simply scrub this young man's memory. I can call upon Mother Lavender and her clan to perform that service."

She swallowed an apprehensive lump in her throat at the suggestion, and ran her paw comfortingly over the sleeping human's bandaged arm. "Can they be trusted not to speak of this?"

"She may be a witch, but few are more trustworthy in the Under Region than Mother Lavender," he assured her, the amiable smile in his voice bolstering each word. She knew she had no reason or right to doubt him anyway. The Grandmaster's judgment was almost never misplaced.

She nodded her consent, but didn't leave Jaxton's side.

"You still seem concerned for him," he observed from his post, and she twisted her head on her shoulders to smile up at her master.

"It's nothing, really," she said in a slight whisper. "I just wish I had gotten to know and understand him a little better, is all."

He sanctioned the sentiment with a nod. "I suspect he wishes the very same. Regardless, he—"

The crystal ball on his desk shuddered in place, silencing their conversation. The shadows within the orb before him began to swirl mystically, and he leaned forward, so close that his nose almost touched the glass. His face turned ashen pale.

Aurora felt his unease palpably, and raced over to his side. "Master? What's wrong? What's happened?"

"A disturbance," he whispered.

"Another one?"

He shook his head, slow and grim. "This one brings death and destruction with it. And beyond that, a blinding light comes to swallow the Under Region from many directions."

"Light? But isn't that good?" She squinted into the glass, trying desperately to see what he was seeing in the black shapes and spirals, but it was to no avail. Unlike him, she'd never trained the dark arts of Mother Lavender's witch clans. He'd explicitly forbade her from exploring those aspects of Aura Mastery, apparently for her own good.

The orb went calm, and he leaned forward so abruptly he almost fell out of his chair. "Aurora," he uttered, his voice hoarse as he began rubbing his temples furiously. "I feared something terrible was about to transpire. Now I know I was correct."

She felt the omen tingle down her spine, but checked herself and straightened her posture. "How long do we have to prepare for this disturbance?"

The Grandmaster peered ruefully at a blank spot of wall beyond her shoulder, spacing off. "As we speak, it is already unfolding," he whispered.

 **TO BE CONTINUED . . .**

* * *

 **A/N:** Yes, I aged up Tucker a bit from the last story for narrative purposes. At some point, I'll go back to the first two stories and retcon/edit this.

A very talented Deviantart user has made a beautiful cover art for this story, though I'm not permitted to share it just yet. I'll have it up with the next chapter most likely.

 **Next Chapter:** Gio and Delia spend some much needed time together; Giuseppe declares war on Team Rocket, forcing Rita to make a tough call.

 **New Characters:**

 **Giuseppe Depiro:** The illegitimate fifteen-year-old son of Rita Ketchum and late mob boss Calypso Depiro. His very conception was on the orders of Metsuma Rocket, who believed Giuseppe would grow into a kingpin Rita could easily manipulate for him in the event his plans fell through and the mob sought retribution. Since Rita never so much as contacted Giuseppe after giving him up to the mob, he now harbors no empathy for his mother, thus no reason not to strike against Team Rocket now that he has ascended to godfather. He has pooled the Saffron Mafia's manpower and resources over the last two years in preparation to take back the criminal underworld. This character was briefly introduced (as a newborn) in the Enigma Chronicles: Echoes.

 **Marco Sapone:** A respected capo for the Saffron Mafia, even at just sixteen-years-old. He is also everything to Giuseppe— right-hand man, loyal friend, and romantic interest. The son of a butcher, he grew up impoverished until his father's death ultimately left him orphaned and destitute. Giuseppe befriended Marco and rose him up into something more, someone of importance. For this reason, Marco now feels intensely indebted to the young mobster and would do anything for him.

 **Rue:** Also called Priestess Rue. She is a Delphox with telepathic abilities and a gift for powerful magic, using fire to see into the future. She has voyaged all the way from Kalos to serve Giuseppe, believing him to be the centerpiece of a mysterious prophecy that must be realized. Many of the underbosses in the Saffron Mafia see her as an outsider and a threat to the business.

 **The Grandmaster:** Aurora's teacher, and a friend to the White Cloaks, namely Morbis. In many ways, he is beyond their jurisdiction of authority and is one of the few in the Under Region not required to don a cloak of any color. Even so, he does keep a close eye on the Coalition's activities, sharing Aurora's fear that they might be losing their way. Though a powerful Aura Master, the full extent of his abilities is largely a mystery.


	4. Something Old, Something New

.

.

 **Short Change Hero**

 **Chapter 4: Something Old, Something New**

Delia scooted herself to the edge of the chair, leaning over her father's bedside. He didn't have much longer; a week or so, at best. She could see it in his pale, sunken cheeks and brittle, bonetight skin. The cancer was slowing to its final crawl, and it was all she could do to fight back tears.

The last year had been a losing battle. She and her mother had scrimped and saved to finance every treatment imaginable, every possible avenue. Doctors, healers, herbal medicine. They had even agreed to some experimental treatments involving Pokémon; at one desperate point, they'd paid top dollar to import several Comfey from the Alola Region to perform ceremonial aromatherapy. In the end, it was just more wasted dollars and wishful thinking.

And yet Delia never had the heart to tell him as much, even if he already knew. It was just an unspoken thing too terrible to admit out loud, let alone dwell on.

His lips jostled slightly to make words, his throat rubbed raw by the feeding tube running through his nose. "I wish I could have walked you down the aisle."

She felt her heart splinter hearing that, even if it wasn't meant as a guilt trip. "I'm sorry," she squeaked out.

A weak laugh rattled in his lungs. "What are _you_ sorry for? It's not your job to pop the question."

She managed a smile through stiff lips, unsure how to respond. The fact that Gio had proposed to her once was still unknown to him. She thought it best not to open up about it; it hadn't amounted to anything, after all. It had been a silly question asked in a haze of passion after just narrowly escaping death on Savile Island, and then just as quickly forgotten about. It really wasn't worth mentioning.

"Mother would lock me in a cellar before Gio could even get down on one knee," she replied, filling the silence with a joke, if she could even call it that with the way her mother was so vehemently against the relationship.

"She'll come around."

"How do you know?"

"Because it's not about her," he said, his faded lips curling fondly. "And it's not about me either. It's about what _you_ want, Delia, and what makes _you_ happy. And if Gio makes you happy, I'm happy."

"Thank you, daddy," she said softly, grasping his hand in her warmer one. She brought it to her lips, leaving a kiss on his knuckles, then to her cheek, and held it there.

"I wasn't supportive of Jareth," he uttered, caressing her cheek in feathery strokes. "I drove him away, as did your mother. I don't want to drive _you_ away, Delia. I won't have that hanging over me in my final hours."

She swallowed, pushing down another truth threatening to rear its head. "It won't," she said, and left it at that.

He nodded, and his fingers weakly threaded her hair. "Go on. Go be happy. That's not a request."

Hesitantly, she rose from her chair, but held onto his hand, even as he pulled it away, squeezing it but not too tightly. "I want you to take it easy until I come home tomorrow. Just rest, okay?"

He opened his mouth to speak, only for a ragged cough to tear through him instead. She reached for the glass of water on his nightstand and raised his pillow with the other. Tilting his head a bit, she brought the refreshing liquid to his lips, letting it wash down his haggard throat. She very much wanted to stay with him until her mother came home from the market, but he kept insisting it would defeat the point of sneaking out. Not that it was sneaking out, really. She'd already briefed her mother about her plans to spend the better part of the weekend with Gio. She'd just never bothered to remind her out of fear that her mother would suddenly spring another unmanned work shift on her just to keep her anchored.

The high-pitched piston whine of a motorcycle pulling to the front of the house yanked Delia's gaze to the window blinds, giving rise to an instinctive smile on her lips, one she was too late to cover up before her father could notice and chuckle at.

"Your chariot awaits," he tried to joke, but his voice came out wheezy and shriveled and it made Delia wince. "You'd best go now before your mother returns."

Outside, Diamond Dust honked in unwitting agreement. She looked to the window, then to her father, torn. "Can I get you something before I leave, daddy? Is there really nothing else I can do for you?"

"Go," he urged, using all of his breath to make the word pop. "Have a good time. _That's_ what you can do for me."

Smiling, she leaned down and kissed his forehead, then on each side of his face. She slid his water glass to the reachable edge of the nightstand and quickly left the room before he could get worked up over her dillydallying and cough himself into an arrhythmia. It brought her comfort knowing that he wanted this for her, and because of it, she knew to make her time away from Pallet Town count for something, for him just as much as her.

She rushed downstairs and grabbed her purse, but stopped at the mirror near the front door to glance at herself, wondering if maybe the blue dress she'd pick out was too daring. She took another quick moment to right her ponytail, having abandoned her pigtails in favor of something new. She usually never cared this darn much about her appearance, but it wasn't often she found any time to leave the house for any place besides work lately. And opportunities to spend more time with Gio were too few and far between, so she felt like she owed it to them both to treat each visit as a special occasion.

Her heart thumped with excitement as she came out the front door and spotted her boyfriend pulling up at the end of the lawn, setting his foot down at the curb to balance his ride beneath him.

"I've come to rescue you from the wicked witch," he hollered over his engine, a playful smile in his voice. She giggled into her hand at the witty joke, then started toward him.

"And do I get to see the face of my knight in shining armor?" she asked, playing along and batting her lashes at him.

He removed his helmet, and shook out his flattened hair, flashing that smile of his that still made her heart flutter so weightlessly in her chest. He always looked so mature these days, yet somehow so dangerous; dark jeans rolled up at the cuffs, a plain white t-shirt, and a black leather jacket flapping slightly in the breeze. He looked like he'd stepped straight out of a 50's biker movie. Part of her found it adorable, but it also excited her in some odd way. There was something thrilling about being able to ride with him as he was, on something so loud and fast and ferocious, that always got her heart galloping.

And yet she felt safe with him as well, every time.

Grabbing hold of her senses, she crossed her arms and threw him a lopsided smirk. "You said you were going to pick me up by car this time."

He shrugged. "I wanted to surprise you."

"Surprise me? Or impress me?"

"Maybe a bit of both," he admitted with a devious chuckle, reaching for her arm and gently pulling her toward him. His lips hovered inches from her own, when he asked, "Did it work?"

She blushed against her will. "Maybe a little."

He laughed, then captured her lips in a deep, heated kiss. Delia closed her eyes tightly, falling into the moment. It was a sweet moment, and short, deliberately so by the time she remembered her mother would be along soon. Even then, he pulled her closer, holding her solid against him.

"Legendaries, I've missed you," he husked into her ear, and it tickled, making her break out in giggles.

"Gio, not here," she managed, collecting herself and drawing back. " _She'll_ be back any time now. We should go."

He nodded, and reached behind him to unhook the spare helmet before handing it off to her. Smiling bashfully, she slung her purse safely back into place and pulled the helmet over her small head. She hopped up behind him on Diamond Dust, and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist as he pushed his foot off the curb.

"Hang on tight," he yelled over his shoulder, and before she knew it, they were zooming away from the house. She pressed her face against his back, and wondered just how far and how long he was prepared to ride them around for before heading back to Viridian City. She didn't care, so long as she got to be with him, thrills aside.

And a little thrill sure beat slogging around the Pallet House on a Friday. Maybe her father was right. Maybe she was due for this.

* * *

The cool, morning air whipped through Marco's blue hair as he skulked out of the alley, keeping his head low and his wits about him as he beelined for the dumpster at the end of the abandoned lot. He stopped at one point for safe measure, flattening his back against the brick wall of the ramshackle office building and whistling up to the rooftop with his best Pidgey imitation. When a whistle carried back down to let him know the coast was clear, he pressed on.

As he closed in on the dumper, two older, larger men in all black duds came out from behind it to greet him, each sporting a giant red 'R' on their chest. He didn't even flinch. "Outfits look good on you fellas," he said. "Real convincing. Might have even fooled _me_ if this wasn't my plan."

The two mobsters in disguise, Curly and Ralphy, shared a rumbling laugh. They were in good spirits, if nothing else, and that was always a promising indicator of good results. In his brief but rewarding career smuggling for the mafia, Marco had never pulled off a job like this. He was so used to doing things solo, but Giuseppe had insisted on making this a group effort. Marco didn't mind the company. He could be quiet and a bit shy at times, sure, but it wasn't always by choice. He just wasn't used to playing with others.

"Did the suckers you took them off of give you trouble?" he asked the pair.

"You should ask them," Curly, the larger one on the right, said with a toothy grin. He nodded to his partner, who lifted the top of the dumpster just enough for Marco to peek inside. He did so, and discovered two men squirming around in the trash in just their drawers and undershirts, their hands tied behind them and their mouths taped shut.

Marco reached down and ripped off the tape covering the closest one's mouth. "How much longer?" he demanded.

"On the hour," gasped the captured Rocket grunt. Marco rolled up his sleeve, tapping his watch, then reapplied the tape over the man's mouth.

"Sorry about this," he mumbled. "Just keep quiet and this will go smoothly. If you can do that, I promise no more harm will come to you."

After some reluctance, both gagged prisoners nodded in understanding. Marco then closed the top of the dumpster on them when the purr of a truck engine swept over the lot, right on schedule. He quickly crouched into hiding behind the dumpster, signaling Ralphy. The mobster nodded and hiked a few yards west to bring around their own truck.

There was no turning back now, and Marco simply had to assume everyone was in position and hope for the best. Whatever the outcome, it would be messy, and Giuseppe would get the war he wanted so badly.

The large box truck approaching them was a twelve-wheeler, just a cut above their own ten-wheeler, which Ralphy was now pulling up in front of the dumpster. Marco frowned, wondering if the size difference between the trucks would blow their whole plan to hell. Worst case scenario, they'd just have to cram to make room. In his experience, that always worked well enough with other illegal goods whenever space was tight. Were Pokémon really all that different from his usual cargo?

The twelve-wheeler screeched to a halt, and two skinny Rocket grunts climbed out from the front seats. More grunts followed, pouring out from the back of the vehicle. Marco counted seven altogether, including the driver and his main crony. Each man had a full set of Pokéballs dangling from the backs of their belts; that was sure to make things trickier if they didn't act fast enough.

Curly, remembering his part, walked up casually to the group and made light of their numbers with a joke. "What, Rocket Headquarters running out of space?"

"Madame Boss's orders," the driver cackled back, shrugging. He leaned out lazily to one side, sizing up the other truck behind Curly with a quick glance. "Hope you got room in that thing."

"Eh, no sweat," said Curly. "We got some storehouses here in Celadon with plenty enough space to go around. Let me just check everything against the manifest and then we'll get this show on the road." He turned, but stopped to snap his fingers at the other grunts standing idly by like a bunch of dopes. "You can start unloading now, if ya want."

The group startled at his voice, as if all at once coming out of a collective daze, and then scrambled behind their truck to start unloading. Keeping half of his face safely concealed behind the dumpster, Marco watched with one diligent eye as several Pokémon in cages were hefted out of one truck and then dumped into the smaller one.

Jackpot, he mouthed to himself. And the fact that this was going smoothly and without incident made it that much sweeter. The grunts didn't suspect a thing, and he almost regretted having to spoil it with violence. It would have been easy enough to steal Team Rocket's traffic from them right underneath their noses on a regular basis, but Giuseppe had other plans. It wasn't enough just to hit Madame Boss where it hurt her most—right in her wallet; Giuseppe also wanted her to know about it, and know who to hold responsible, at that.

Once the transfer was complete and the Pokémon were loaded up, Ralphy plunked himself behind the wheel again, quietly awaiting the getaway phase of the plan. Curly, meanwhile, returned to the Team Rocket driver empty-handed, throwing up his arms in a half-shrug and affecting a look of cluelessness. The mobster was performing the hell out of his role.

"Looks like I forgot the manifest," he heaved, before waving adieu and turning. "Sorry about that. Anyway, we'll just be on our—"

"Not so fast!" the driver hollered after him, and Marco knew time was up. "Not until you give us the Rocket Gang password! Sorry, but rules are rules!"

The impostor froze. "Oh, right, the password. It's… uh… on the tip of my tongue."

While Curly stalled, Marco tilted his head back and pressed his teeth to his lips, whistling real loud to the top of the building behind him.

Suddenly, Voltorbs rained down from above by the dozens, landing all around the Team Rocket squad's feet. The grunts turned their heads about, distracted, frightened, and that was when Curly bolted. He climbed into the ten-wheeler beside Ralphy, a signal in itself that it was time to make off with the loot and get out of dodge before the kaboom.

Marco came out from his hiding spot to climb in with them, but apparently, it was every man for himself, and he was left coughing and hacking on their fumes as they fled the parking lot without him. "Shit heads," he muttered under his breath, and turned his head up to the rooftop, whistling to the soldiers stationed there.

Nothing came back. They, too, had all abandoned him.

"Just great," he sighed, then quickly began sprinting back toward the alley he'd slunk out of earlier. He shouldn't have been surprised. He was Giuseppe's favorite, but that obviously still didn't sit well with a lot of the older, more grizzled mafioso soldiers. They all saw him as a filthy smuggler skating by on luck, an orphan kid with no right to share in their glory. And _this_ was why he liked working solo. He could play nice with others; the problem was they rarely ever played nice with him.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the panicked Team Rocket grunts tripping over each other to get back into their own truck before the Voltorbs could detonate. He felt sorry for them, sort of. They were just average joes doing their job, trying to make a living, no different than him. Honestly, he would have been fine just pilfering from them and smuggling the stolen goods behind enemy lines, and leaving it at that. At least then it would have been harmless business as usual.

And that's when he remembered: the two saps still tied up in the dumpster. He'd given them his word.

Twisting on his feet, he huffed and puffed back to his abandoned post, tossing out a Pokéball ahead of him. Kadabra appeared, calm and poised, a fitting reminder of Giuseppe himself, who had given Marco the Pokémon as a gift for his fifteenth birthday. Right now, he just hoped this was one of those gifts that kept on giving.

He came upon the dumpster. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the Voltorbs now glowing bright white, and hollered the first command that came to him.

"Kadabra, use Protect!"

The Psychic Pokémon bent its spoon forward, projected a green barrier over itself, Marco, and the dumpster just as the Voltorbs reached critical mass. The resulting explosion bounced off the energy shield, instead ravaging the better part of the parking lot. The Team Rocket truck and its unlucky passengers, meanwhile, had failed to get away in time and were sent blasting off toward the horizon.

When the dust settled and only crisped Voltorb husks peppered the grounds, Marco lifted up the dumpster top. Inside, the two unharmed prisoners were staring up at him as if they'd just seen a phantom. They probably couldn't believe he'd spared them their comrades' misfortune. Hell, he could hardly wrap his own head around it. Giuseppe's code of honor was rubbing off on him more and more these days; he'd promised these men no harm in exchange for cooperating, and he was delivering on that promise.

Yay? He'd have to pat himself on the back later, he figured.

He peeled the tape off the grunts' mouths, while Kadabra loosened the rope around their wrists with its psychic powers. "You fellows will have to find yourselves some new clothes. Sorry."

They looked to each other, then one of them muttered at the teenager, "Why would you help us, kid? What's the catch?"

"I gave you my word," he said, but didn't bother to explain any further when he heard familiar engines cutting through the spell of quiet. "Now lay low until I'm gone, or my word will have been for squat."

They crouched back into place, and he closed the top over their heads and spun around just as Curly and Ralphy reemerged in the ten-wheeler, smacking through the fried Voltorbs like bowling pins. The tires shrieked in front of him, and the passenger door swung open. Curly was crouched between the seats, frantically gesturing at Marco.

"Get in, kid, before the fuzz show up and bust us!"

Grudgingly, Marco returned Kadabra to its Pokéball and climbed into the passenger seat. He wasn't even halfway buckled in before they were speeding out of the lot.

"You left me," he uttered flatly. Beside him, Curly nudged Ralphy's arm with his elbow and laughed, as if to say, 'Teenagers, am I right?'

"We knew you would make it out," Ralphy said after a tense moment, shrugging. Marco decided not to waste his breath arguing with the boneheads, and so he kept quiet, brushing some flakes of debris off his lap and rolling his head back, working out the crick in his neck. At least the assignment had been carried out to the letter, even though there would be more to follow in the coming weeks. He knew this was only the first beating of war drums.

Discreetly, he glanced into the side mirror outside his door. In the distance, the men he'd left behind were finally climbing out of their refuge, safe and sound. He smiled a weak smile, not even realizing it until he caught his reflection. Of course, he couldn't take all the credit for letting them walk away from this uninjured. Giuseppe had said he wanted word of this incident to reach Madame Boss quickly, and it just so happened the two Grunts he'd spared were in perfect health to deliver the message.

* * *

Food could wait, thought Tucker as he plunked down at his lunch table in the courtyard with his shortwave radio. He carefully twisted the dials, passing over the music stations, trying to get to the good stuff. He lost his focus, though, when Roland, his best friend and schoolmate, scooted down the bench to join him, bringing with him his half-built plastic Magneton from their model building class.

"Hey, Tuck," the heavyset thirteen-year-old whined, rattling the loose model parts in his hand. "You gonna help me work on this or not? Remember, it's extra credit if we finish early."

"In a second." It was hard enough as it was to hear over the other noisy lunch tables, let alone over Roland shouting into his ear hole.

The other boy stared at the funny looking box in front of Tucker, and sighed wearily. "You're not supposed to have that out, you know."

"Just give me a second, Roland," Tucker said again, waving his friend quiet as he leaned into his radio. All he could hear from the speakers was static as he fiddled with the knobs back and forth, trying to get the right signal. Finally, after straightening the antenna a little, he reached a semi-clear station.

"... an update for you all," a man's voice piped through the airwaves. "Today, we, the Military Government, have intercepted communication waves from a Pokémon discovery ship 1011, about 200 nautical miles away from the open sea of Twin Island. I have met an unidentified Pokémon. I am certain that this is the legendary Dragonair."

The report filled Tucker with awe. "Are you hearing this, Roland? It's history in the making!"

"You know, I saw a Dragonair once," the other boy dropped casually.

Tucker twisted his head. "What? Really? When?"

His friend was tinkering with their school project with one hand and eating his lunch with the other, his tone almost sounding bored. "Last summer when me and my family went camping near Mount Silver. I saw its shadow in a lake."

"But did you actually _see_ it?" Tucker specified, lifting a brow.

"I just told you I did."

"No, you said you saw a shadow."

Roland shrugged, taking a bite out of his turkey sandwich. "Yeah. That counts."

"No, it doesn't, Roland."

"Who went and made you the Pokémon sheriff?" Roland challenged, rolling his eyes before quickly scarfing down the rest of his lunch. Tucker couldn't help a small chuckle. The other boy had a way of getting him to laugh without even trying, a code Tucker could never seem to crack. He didn't get how a funny guy like Roland could be branded an outcast and sentenced to the loner's table with him.

Then, turning his head, glancing at the boy's model Magneton, it started to come back to him. Both he and Roland were bonafide losers, always sitting alone at the same table, always getting a headstart on schoolwork, always geeking out over Pokémon despite never owning one, unlike most other students at the academy. They'd never been openly bullied for it, but the glances and whispers behind their backs said it all.

It also didn't help that they weren't exactly winning any favors in the looks department. They were practically dumbbells to every other guy on campus, Tucker more so than Roland, with his scrawny arms and thin legs and a stature that just barely topped five feet after a recent growth spurt. He'd grown out his thick mop of hair to add some height, but in the end, it just made him look like a layabout, as put so kindly by his dad. He'd even heard some kids snicker in class that he looked like he was wearing a blonde Tangela as a hat.

Roland had it way worse, though. He was a big guy, sure, and still growing. But it never went unmentioned by those same snickering kids that he was on the heavier side, filling his school uniform to the seams, with his gut hanging over his belt most of the time. That—thrown in with a freckled face, a butchered red crew cut, and an asthma condition—sort of cinched his place next to Tucker in the student hierarchy.

The terrible scratching of the radio caught between stations brought Tucker back to the moment. A new voice broke through the sound, and Tucker leaned in eagerly, his heart hammering in his chest. Even if life had dealt him a pretty lousy hand, the dreamer in him still lived for these moments, for these amazing Pokémon discoveries.

"We just intercepted another radio signal," the radio host said. "We'd like to broadcast it to you all. Please stand by."

Roland sighed heavily again. "Give that thing a rest, will you, Tuck? It's not like—"

"Shhh," Tucker silenced him, listening. The panicked voice of a female correspondent filled the speakers.

"Oh, I just regret not letting others see this figure!" she exclaimed, something between awe in terror in her voice. "It's Gyarados! Gyarados is right here in front of my eyes! We've heard that it's an atrocious Pokémon, and as expected it looks very fierce! Oh… it's coming this way—"

The broadcast went dead, leaving more static in its wake. Tucker blew out a disappointed sigh and leaned his chin into the palm of his hand. A soft warm autumn breeze caressed his curly hair, taunting him in its own way, reminding him of the much larger world beyond his tiny little one right where he was. If he wasn't at school, he was at home. If he wasn't at home, he was at school. He wondered if he would ever see another city that wasn't either Pallet Town or Viridian City, another landscape that didn't just stay the same all the time, another Pokémon other than the ones in his father's corral or the Pidgey flocks that always passed him by overhead, free to fly wherever they wanted whenever they want.

"Hey, how about that," Roland remarked nonchalantly when the signal didn't return. "I guess Gyarados is real after all."

Tucker shrugged. "I already knew Gyrados was real, but I still wanna see one in person."

"How do you know it's real?"

"Gio battled one when he took on the Indigo League," he said. "He told me all about it."

"He was probably just trying to impress you."

Tucker snorted at the comment. "No way. Gio doesn't lie."

"Sorry, it just sounds too good to be true."

"You mean like your Dragonair story?" countered Tucker, smirking. Roland froze for a second, saying nothing.

"On second thought," he began, setting back to work on his project, "maybe he did see Gyarados after all."

Tucker laughed softly, shaking his head. He then gazed at the dead radio, solemnly. "All these new Pokémon being discovered," he huffed, kicking underneath the table. "Meanwhile, we're stuck here."

"Hey, it's not all bad," said the ginger, before pointing near Tucker. "Hand me that piece there, will you?" Tucker handed him the tiny plastic model part, and only then did Roland continue his thought. "Think of it this way, Tuck. We still get credit for attending here just like any other Pokémon Trainer would out there."

Tucker rolled his eyes. "Except we're not real Trainers. We don't even have Pokémon."

"Oh," Roland croaked, pausing. "Right. Forgot about that."

Tucker glanced at their project. The model was finally starting to resemble a Magneton, yet it only drew a grimace from him. "There are ten-year-olds out there catching Pokémon all on their own. And what are we doing at twelve and thirteen? Building dumb models of them."

"For the record, I'm the _only_ one building here," Roland muttered, concentrating. "Besides, this is the only elective my mom deemed safe enough for a soft boy like me. Her words, not mine."

"Oh, come on!" Tucker leaned back on the bench, drumming his fingers on his knee to vent his energy. "What are we doing here? Why aren't we allowed to have some fun? I mean, it doesn't bother you that your folks don't trust you enough to let you go out on an adventure on your own?"

The larger boy laughed. "My folks don't trust me to pee in a public bathroom on my own."

"Gross, Roland."

He elbowed Tucker's arm. "Speaking of not accomplishing things on my own, wanna start giving me a hand with this? The sooner we get it turned in, the sooner we can get it graded and not have to worry about it."

Tucker was about to give in when he noticed several students bustling past their table, flooding out of the courtyard and onto the grass field. He knew that was where most Pokémon Battles were permitted between students, but as rose up in his seat and squinted a little, it didn't look like any battles were being fought. He could make out a large crowd gathering near the far edge of the field.

"What's that all about?" he murmured, mostly to himself. He stood from the bench, his curiosity piqued.

Roland saw this and groaned. "Seriously, man? You're just looking for any reason not to—"

"Be right back," Tucker talked over him, abandoning the table and rushing after the herd of students.

Upon crossing the field, he shoved his way through the bigger, taller bodies milling around in a circle. They were all chanting and laughing, and as he came to the center, he saw why. Fourteen-year-old Brandon Becker, one of the academy's celebrated jerks, was tossing a bone club back and forth with a buddy. And standing atop a tree stump between them was a mewling Cubone, balancing on its tippy toes, desperately trying to reclaim the stolen property flying over its head.

"Kewww!" it cried out. "Kewbone!"

Brandon howled in laughter, as did his pal, which, in turn, got the rest of the crowd going. Tucker felt his blood boil in his veins and pound at his temple, and he stomped out from the mob, bringing up his pointer finger to the bully.

"Give that back to him!" His voice cracked a bit at the end, and the other students pointed and laughed. He didn't care though.

Brandon caught the bone club, snorted in his Tucker's direction, and then passed it back to his buddy again. "Pipe down, Oak. We're just messing with the little thing."

"It's called Cubone," he clarified sharply, standing his ground. "And it's a Pokémon, not a _thing_."

The older boy shrugged, not caring. Tucker's patience snapped, and he moved between the two older boys, snatching the bone club on the next pass. A gasp rippled through the crowd, and everyone went quiet, looking toward Brandon. The bully's glare was fiery and promised consequences.

Tucker ignored him, and knelt down to return Cubone's weapon. "Here you go, little feller."

The Pokémon peeked up hesitantly at Tucker from beneath its skull mask, and reached out slowly to take the club from his hand. "Kew? Kewbone?"

Suddenly, Brandon was closer, catching Tucker in his towering shadow. "How about you stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, Oak?"

Tucker rose to his feet, meeting the bully's gaze, unafraid. "And how about you start picking on someone your own size for a change?"

"Fair enough." Brandon reached forward and snatched Tucker's uniform collar with his fist, easily pulling the smaller boy toward him. His other hand went to his own belt, resting against the Pokéball hanging there, a bluff more than a threat, but one Tucker was ready to chance if it meant protecting a helpless Pokémon.

"What's going on over there?" a teacher's voice rang out across the field, and Brandon quickly released his hold on Tucker. The rest of the crowd began to scatter like scared Rattatas.

"Watch yourself, Oak," the older boy warned softly. "Your daddy may be a big-shot professor, but he isn't here to protect you."

Tucker scowled, watching Brandon guardedly as the jerk headed back to the courtyard with the other students. When the mob cleared, Roland was the only audience left, staring wide-eyed and mouth agape. Apparently he'd heard the commotion and come running.

"Tuck, are you crazy?" he squeaked, on the verge of hyperventilation. "You can't go picking fights on your first week!"

"I couldn't let them hurt Cubone," Tucker said simply, pivoting. The Pokémon was still sitting on its stump, hugging its bone club like a baby rattle. He'd hoped the little guy would have scampered off to safer turf by now, but no such luck.

"Weird," Roland observed. "He doesn't seem to wannna leave that spot."

"Yeah," Tucker agreed with only some effort, unable to drag his gaze from the companionless Pokémon. He wondered if Cubone was on his own, or waiting for someone, maybe. A Trainer? A family member?

From the school grounds, the bells rang out, scattering Tucker's thoughts. Roland tapped his shoulder. "Let's get back to class, Tuck, before the teacher rips us a new one."

Reluctantly, Tucker nodded, and began to turn back toward the school. Roland was already trundling down the field ahead of him.

Tucker froze after a few steps, however, feeling as if maybe he hadn't done enough for the little Cubone. He reached into his pocket, fishing out a small package of biscuit sticks he'd brought from home to snack on during class. Opening the package, he returned to Cubone's perch and crouched down. The Pokémon flinched at first, but relaxed when Tucker set down the snack on the stump. "Here you go, little feller," he whispered, smiling. "I don't mind. I'm not feeling too hungry anyway."

Cubone tilted its head distrustfully, poking at the package with its club. Tucker laughed.

"It's just a snack, I promise!" To prove it, he reached for one of the sticks and took a bite out of it, chewing slowly. "See? Yum!"

Hunching forward, Cubone swiped a stick with his free hand. He sniffed it once, then took a nibble. After swallowing one bite, the Pokémon let out a tiny burp.

"Hey, glad you like it!" Tucker chuckled, nudging the package closer to Cubone, who plunked himself down and began chowing down. Tucker wished he had more to give him. If he wasn't uncertain the little guy didn't already belong to another Trainer, he might have considered taking him home. He'd always had a soft spot for smaller Pokémon, and Cubone would be a lot safer living in his dad's corral than around these parts.

The class bell rang out its final warning, and Tucker snapped to his feet with a sigh. "I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow, Cubone," he said, passing Cubone a small smile and waving. "Don't overeat, okay?"

The Pokémon stopped munching for a moment, tossing a look of incomprehension at the twelve-year-old as he started to walk away. Then, immediately, he went back to gorging, and Tucker turned his head forward on his shoulders, satisfied. He'd made a new friend, and a Pokémon friend at that, one he expected to see again in the coming days. Since his dad wouldn't give him a Pokémon, this would do just fine.

* * *

"Can I open them now, Gio?"

"Not yet."

"Oh, this is torture, and you know it!"

Snickering, Gio stood back to let Delia enter the Gym first, then steered her by the shoulders. Meowth was waiting at the center of the arena, standing post next to a table set for two, complete with a red tablecloth and some kind of candle he'd picked out as a centerpiece. Well, technically, Ariana had picked it out; but now that he thought about it, it was probably done to sabotage the date.

Pressing his lips together, he eyed the table setting. Was it too elaborate? Too fancy? Maybe the pillar candle was a bit much, even for them. He slowed Delia to a stop, made sure her eyes were still closed, and then raced ahead to pluck the largest candle out of the mixed greenery and flowers. No detail could be left to chance, in his mind. He'd closed down operations for the day, reserving the battlefield just for this date, so he wanted everything to be perfect for her.

He took a quick glance around to see that everything else was in order. The wall sconces were lit and burning warmly, and the ceilings lights were dimmed to a glow he hoped felt romantic enough. The elaborate lunch entrees he'd ordered from a few stops down but couldn't even begin to pronounce were still hot, thankfully, each plate with its own silver cloche. A small fortune, but worth it for the girl he'd been lucky to have for going on five years now.

"Gio, can I open them yet?"

Before he could approve her request, he remembered the candle in his hand, then glanced up at the table; now the centerpiece looked a little flat and lopsided. "Damn," he muttered, quickly setting the stupid thing back in place and relighting it. Why couldn't it have been shorter?

"Gio!"

Satisfied enough with the adjustment, he took her by the shoulders again and gingerly sat her down at the table. "Okay, now," he whispered into her ear.

She opened her eyes slowly, an eye ridge rising at the sight of the decorated table, the entrees, everything. "Gio," she gasped, her head turning in quick motions. "It's- this is wonderful! You really did all this? _You_?"

"Of course." He lifted only the corner of his mouth into a smile, trying not to seem too impressed with himself. "Do you like it?"

"It's perfect," she said, touching one of the center flowers; he'd made a good call with that after all. "You did all this by yourself?"

"Well, I had _some_ help," I said, tilting his chin in Meowth's direction. The Pokémon was perched proudly near the front leg of her chair.

Giggling, Delia leaned down and placed a kiss on the cat's charm. "Thank you, Meowth."

"Meeeerow!"

Gio yanked off his gloves, setting them on the edge of the table and hanging his jacket over his chair before sitting down. It was starting to hit him that maybe he should have changed into something more appropriate for the occasion. He'd been so hung up on getting everything else perfect that he'd completely forgotten to look in a mirror. Then again, something told him she didn't mind all that much, given the way she'd blushed when he'd rolled up to her house earlier.

As she began to look through the expensive selection of dishes between them, she couldn't help shaking her head, disbelief in her smile. "You really closed down the Gym for an entire afternoon just for me? Is that allowed?"

"It's _my_ Gym," he said with a shrug. "I'll decide what's allowed."

She chuckled, and spread a napkin over her lap once she settled on some kind of fancy spinach and basil sauce dish. "I hope you weren't slaving away in the kitchen all morning," she remarked with a hint of sarcasm as she stirred.

"I ordered in," he said, smirking as he gently nudged her foot underneath the table. "Besides, if I could cook, what would I need you for?"

"Watch yourself, Mr. Ketchum!" she threatened playfully, pointing her spoon at him and kicking his ankle. He started to laugh, but something she'd said gave him pause, and he turned his eyes away and cleared his throat.

"Sakaki," he corrected flatly, before quickly biting into a piece of bread. She froze, a frown setting deeply on her face. He knew she hated that surname. He knew that wasn't the last name she wanted him to give her someday, but it was his identity now. They both just needed to accept it and move on.

After a moment, she nodded apologetically. "I know, I'm sorry. Two years and it still hasn't quite… sunk in yet."

He twisted his mouth into a bitter smile before diving into his own entree and quickly changing the subject. "How's business at the Pallet House?"

"Could be better," she sighed, scraping her spoon against the sides of her bowl. "But is could also be worse, I guess."

"And your father?"

"He's in good spirits, if nothing else," she murmured softly, her eyes hidden in her meal. It was still a tender subject, one she clearly didn't want to think about right now. So he would respect that.

"Your mother?" he pressed onward.

"Still hates you like the plague."

He nodded slowly, smirking. "All is well and normal then."

She nearly choked hearing that, and the sight made him toss his head back with a hearty chuckle of his own. Their laughter bounced off the walls of the Gym, filling it with comfort and warmth. Gio could have spent all afternoon just cracking wise and making Delia laugh. Fewer sounds pleased him more than that contagious giggle, and he sort of preferred it to all the serious talk.

"So how's the shop?" she asked once they collected themselves. "I'm guessing slow. I don't see a single callus on your hands."

He held up his palms in front of him instinctively, inspecting them, before stopping to really pull apart her question. "I'm not usually the one who works on the cars, Delia. That's usually Rocco or Kirk or my Pokémon. I just… oversee things."

"Except when it comes to Diamond Dust," she murmured teasingly against the rim of her water glass. He'd heard it, and smiled slyly.

"You got me." He reached across the table, running his thumb over her knuckles. "But they're also reserved just for you. And for the record, I've upped my back-rubbing game a bit."

She giggled, setting her water down. "Oh, is that right? Well, I could sure use a good massage. This week has been brutal, to say the least."

He nodded, looking down at his food, the words resonating with him more than he cared to admit. He felt so trapped in his job lately, both jobs, yet each for different reasons. It also didn't help that Narissa Amado's sob story had stuck with him throughout the week, haunting him like a phantom, making his daily and nightly duties even harder to see through than usual. And finally, there were Tucker's problems dumped on top of his own, as if he somehow had all the answers to a twelve-year-old's identity crisis when he himself was still wrestling with his own.

Delia sighed, suddenly looking discouraged. "Adulthood. The workforce. Responsibilities. The universe sure knows how to keep us apart, doesn't it?"

"Tell me about it," he grumbled, absently cracking his knuckles. "Sometimes it feels like a lifetime between our visits. And it's all I can do not to…" He let the sentence trail off, and quickly untensed his fists when he realized how exposed he was. "Forget it."

She slanted her head and narrowed her eyes in an obvious effort to glean whatever he'd left unsaid out of him. His whole body tensed. He felt like scum for not catching himself sooner. He didn't want her to worry, not now, not here and not with him. He wanted them to be happy and just enjoy each other while they could. Legendaries, why did he have to open his damn mouth?

Desperate to get back to normalcy, he shook his head and squared his shoulders, forcing out a laugh. "It's nothing. Just thinking out loud."

She gave him a small, hopeful smile and reached out, squeezing his wrist. "You should do it more often. It's getting harder to read you these days."

He nodded, looking down at the table and clearing his throat. "So," he forced out through the lump in his throat, past the sharp stabbing pain in his chest. "Have you heard from Spencer at all?"

She dropped her spoon into her bowl. "Oh! That reminds me!" She twisted around excitedly, reaching into the purse hanging off her chair and pulling out an envelope, holding it out toward him. "That group photograph finally developed! The one you took of Spencer and me on his last day in town!"

He took the envelope and lifted the photograph out of the pocket, turning its front to him. The faces of Delia, Sam, and Spencer all smiled up at him as they posed against the fence overlooking Pallet Town's windmills. He'd chosen the perfect spot to snap the three of them, and he smiled sadly, suddenly reminded of the last of more innocent times. Everyone he'd traveled with held a special memory for him in their own way; Sam had set him on the path, and Delia had been his first and only love, and Meowth and his other Pokémon had taught him a valuable trade.

But for some reason Gio couldn't put his finger on, Spencer was that one friend he associated most with the peak of his Pokémon Training quest, the carefree days of three friends going around the Johto Region conquering Gym Leaders and knocking off bad guys. He'd accepted the end to that era upon moving out of Pallet Town and changing his surname, but for some reason, the reality of it didn't truly hit him until he saw Spencer get in that cab and leave for Greenfield. He'd felt a pang in his chest that day, watching yet another familiar face split away from the old hive, becoming a distant memory and taking with him another piece of the old Giovanni. It had opened his eyes to the fact that he could never get the old days back, not even if he wanted to.

And that was what made it so hard... because sometimes he _did_. It would have broken Delia's heart to hear him admit to something so weak and pathetic, but it was the truth. The old days had been perilous, but they'd been simpler, and he himself had felt so much safer surrounded by Delia and their friends at all times. He'd been able to better trust himself back then, and he hadn't known enough about his darkness to become afraid of it and take responsibility for it. That wasn't the case anymore.

But just wanting what was lost often made him upset, rattling his aggressive conscience, something he found he couldn't control very well anymore. That was part of the reason why he'd discarded the name Ketchum altogether, spending the last two years making every effort to move forward and not dwell on the past. He didn't want that longing and nostalgia weighing him down, and he didn't want that pain, in turn, to twist him into someone even more bitter and frustrated than he already felt most of the time. Delia didn't deserve to be subjected to that. She was the only one that kept him together, and the one core piece of Giovanni Ketchum, besides Meowth, that he could never let go of.

"You take a good a picture," applauded Delia across the table, snapping him out of his daze. She got up from her chair and slipped behind him to peer over his shoulder at the photograph. He nodded once her comment finally caught up to him, chuckling.

"Legendaries, it never really hit me just how much older Sam looks these days," he noted, trying to find something else to talk about.

She sighed into his ear. "Being a single father will do that to you."

"And Spencer, too," he finally murmured, tracing a finger nostalgically over the face of the tall young man. "Forget just age. The camera really adds inches."

She laughed, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek and draping her arms around his shoulders. "You know," she exhaled, "you should have been _in_ the shot with us instead of behind the camera."

A shiver ran down his spine, and not the good kind.

"Spencer would have wanted something to remember you by," she uttered, so harmlessly. Even so, he shook his head in sharp jerks and slammed the photo face-down in front of him, not in any mood to hear her once again mourn over the boy he once was. That identity didn't exist anymore. That identity couldn't pose for photos. If she couldn't get past that, he didn't know how he ever truly, fully could either.

"You know damn well what you're doing right now, Delia." The coldness in his voice made her flinch against him, and he immediately wanted to suck it back in. He'd try to steer the conversation safely back on course, and somehow they'd ended up right back in the ravine. And he felt exposed and naked again, and afraid of how monstrous he must have seemed in that moment.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered, slowly unlacing her arms from around his neck. "I didn't mean for that to come out like it sounded, honestly."

He caught her wrist, holding it steady against his shoulder, not wanting to let go. He relaxed, and blew out a breath. "No," he whispered. " _I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't have acted like that."

She took his chin in her hand, turning his face toward her and smiling that smile that made him feel like his world wasn't such a dark place after all. He leaned up, pressing his lips against hers; a soft, simple action, and all he needed to put his fears to rest once she melted right into it. Things were rough and would never be like they were, but he would be okay. _They_ would be okay.

* * *

Marco entered Giuseppe's quarters later that afternoon with a sense of profound relief, and it wasn't because of the dangerous job he'd just narrowly pulled off. It was because this was going to be their first moment alone together in over a week. He wagered these moments would come more frequently now that he was expected to report to Giuseppe after every assignment. It was weird, in a way, how a war with the Rocket Gang had potential in equal shares to both drive them further apart and bring them closer together.

Though the mob's hideout spanned a sprawling labyrinth of sleek foyers and suites underground the Celadon Casino, Giuseppe's private chambers were modest, by comparison. Whereas most teenage boys their age were cocky punks that liked to showboat whatever material wealth they possessed, Giuseppe's tastes were decidedly ordinary, and anything but pretentious.

And it made Marco feel at home. It made him feel less out of place. If he'd owned a home of his own, it would have been identical. Even just standing in the common room as he was now, Marco could appreciate just how bland and base everything was, from the colorless walls to the battered furniture. And he liked boring. It wasn't flashy and it wasn't fake.

Smiling a bit, he walked up to the organized bookcase running along the wall to his left. He skimmed his finger over the well-worn binds of the shelved texts; knowledge was one thing a scholar like Giuseppe _did_ take pride in and didn't have any issue showing off. He recognized some of these books from back when he'd first came under the mob's protection. Giuseppe had insisted on tutoring him in history and literature and composition and other subjects he'd never studied while growing up poverty-stricken.

As he came to the end of the bookcase and turned, he frowned, drawing his focus to a more recent aspect of Giuseppe he wasn't as fond of. A single brazier claimed the top-left corner of the parlor room, one he wished were just decorative and nothing else. It had been a gift from Priestess Rue back when she first arrived from Kalos and had only just begun to preach her silly religion to Giuseppe. It apparently had magical properties, yet the fact that Giuseppe hadn't trashed it disturbed Marco a little. How could a smart, educated guy like him not see through her bullshit?

Giuseppe's low, agile voice twisted Marco around. "Fast work."

Marco cleared his throat a little, nodding. The young kingpin stood observantly in the doorway to the adjoining room, his face its usual solemn mask. His hair was damp from a shower, hanging in small, brown rivulets across his forehead. He was in casual clothes, for once—casual for him, anyway. A loose, red button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of slacks. Even in his leisure time, he still had to dress and act like he was twice his age.

"It's done then," said Giuseppe flatly, not so much a question as a statement. Marco nodded anyway.

"The Pokémon they were transporting are now in our custody." Marco kept his posture straight and his hands behind his back as he delivered his report. "Word of it should be reaching your mother right about now. I expect she won't be happy."

The mob boss betrayed no surprise or emotion at the news. "The cargo size?"

"A truckload," Marco answered. "We're keeping them at one of our warehouses downtown. A lot of mouths to feed, but we'll make it work."

"And are the other men treating you with respect?" Giuseppe asked, arching a brow. Marco bit his lower lip; it was a tricky one to answer, and he feared the truth would endanger Curly and Ralphy to some unnecessary extreme.

"It'll be... an adjustment period," he settled on.

Giuseppe saw through the vague response, and glared, pacing closer to Marco. "Who harmed you? Give me their names."

Marco was sort of startled by the reaction, but also a bit flattered; he laughed, holding up his palms. "It's alright, really. No one harmed me, Boss."

After a moment, the other boy's mouth curved upward just slightly. "You don't have to call me that when we're alone. You know that."

"Giuseppe," he amended, returning the smile. That little knot that had hidden in his stomach tightened despite himself though.

"You took a great risk today," said the kingpin, the words meant in praise, yet his tone sounding more observational than anything else. Marco figured this was his subtle way of trying to gauge his thoughts on the mob's situation. And of course, Marco had kept those opinions to himself so far, simply doing as he was told without asking questions. When it came down to it, that was really all that mattered.

Still, he did have Giuseppe's ear, as Ignazio had pointed out shortly before getting himself killed. He considered it a privilege more than a weapon though. He had to tread carefully with it, pick his battles, figure out a way to advise his friend without making it seem like he was questioning or challenging his authority. Giuseppe had always respected Marco professionally for his constraint and discretion, and Marco didn't want to lose that; in case nothing came of their _other_ relationship, he couldn't afford to.

"For you, there's nothing I wouldn't risk," he proclaimed proudly after a long, thoughtful pause. "Besides, I'm a smuggler, so I don't mind the busywork and—"

Giuseppe's voice suddenly cut like an icy wind. "But you don't approve of my methods, do you?"

Marco closed his mouth when he realized it was still hanging open, and turned his head away, exhaling through his nostrils. He supposed this was it then. He'd waited for the opportune moment to make his voice heard, and now here it was, being offered to him on a platter by the man himself.

"I'm just wondering," he began coyly, building his sentence as he went along, "if there isn't a better way to handle our situation."

Giuseppe lifted his strong chin. "If one exists, share it with me."

Marco glanced down briefly, rethinking his approach, then looked up to meet Giuseppe's intense gaze again. "I always knew it would come to war… someday," he said. "I just didn't think that day would come so soon. After the Rocket Empire fell and the banks went under, the mob was in shambles. All of its branches were scattered, fighting amongst each other just to lay claim to the shiniest penny. But you brought the family back together when no one else could. You made it whole again. I don't know how you did it, but you did."

The mob boss frowned. "But...?"

"But... we're still rebuilding, recuperating."

Giuseppe stared blankly past Marco's shoulder, his clenching jaw the only sign that he registered what was said.

"So," Marco carried on with the thought, "that being said, why not wait until we're at full strength to engage Team Rocket?"

"Team Rocket," the other boy tested the name on his tongue, his nostrils doing a little flare. "Call them the Rocket Gang. They're not a damn soccer team. I don't have the slightest idea how that name ever came to be. If they can rule the underworld with a silly name like that, what does that say about _us_?"

Marco suppressed a smile, even if the other boy's words hadn't been meant as a joke. "My point still stands," he stated.

Giuseppe shook his head without changing his expression. "The Military Government's obsessive desire to discover new Pokémon has enabled illegal Pokémon smuggling and hunting organizations like the Rocket Gang to flourish these past few years," he explained. "If we're the only ones not flourishing, that means we're admitting defeat."

"Of course, I understand that, but—"

"Once, the black market bent to the Saffron Mafia," the kingpin cut Marco down, coming to stand closer to him, too close. "Now it bends to my mother and the Rocket Gang. Who decided that? I didn't. And that's why I'll not sit meekly by and wait for us to collapse back into nothing while the Rocket Gang thrives on the very riches and prosperity my father was promised all those years ago by Torino. Mark my words, Marco, we will show all of the underworld that we are not a force to be crossed. We will bring the Rocket Gang to its knees."

Marco blinked at that intense mouthful, but eventually found his voice. "And your mother?"

He shrugged. "If she complies with my demands and surrenders to me, I'll be fair to her. I'll allow her to retire her little empire with dignity."

"Fair to her," Marco echoed back the words in a croak, looking down between them. He swallowed, knowing exactly which question he wanted to follow up with, fighting with himself over whether or not to ask it, before finally deciding it deserved an answer. "Just as you were fair to Ignazio?"

Giuseppe was quiet for a moment, then straightened. "Ignazio was a traitor. He openly defied me."

"And if it had been _me_ that spoke out that day instead of him?"

"It wouldn't have been you."

Marco reached out a terrified hand. His fingers found Giuseppe's shirt, and he squeezed it. "But how do you _know_ that?"

"It wouldn't have been you," the other boy repeated more firmly, hovering so close to Marco now that he could feel his breath ghosting his face. "You're loyal. I trust you. Do _you_ trust _me_ , Marco?"

Even though Giuseppe was staring straight at him, there was a faraway, lonely look in his eyes that broke Marco's heart to see. In truth, he looked less like a potent leader at that moment, and in Marco's eyes, he looked more like a frightened boy afraid to hear bad news. And so Marco changed his approach, telling his best friend what he believed to be at the crux of all his carefully concealed hardship:

"I would follow you anywhere, Giuseppe... I would die for you."

Giuseppe blinked and looked at Marco like he was seeing him properly for the first time. His left hand rose to cover Marco's trembling left hand, which was currently sitting on his right shoulder, and held onto it like a drowning man would hold a float. The other hand came to Marco's cheek, tracing the scar running along it. Then the crime lord sighed and leaned forward ever so slightly, resting his forehead against the other boy's.

The two stood like that for what seemed to Marco an eternity, and Marco had never before felt his heart pound so fast, never before been so intimately aware of another. He kept his eyes determinedly closed, fearing that were he to open them and see his best friend's piercing brown ones looking back at him, it would make everything uncomfortable and seem like more than just a friendship, and they'd be forced to split apart.

Then suddenly, as if lightning had struck him, Giuseppe took a huge intake of breath and pulled his head away, probably remembering the door to the suite was still wide open.

"Someone might see," the kingpin said, clearing his throat into his fist and stepping back. He was all business and rigidness again in the blink of an eye, leaving Marco feeling a painful twinge in his chest.

"Right," Marco complied in a soft voice, straightening. He was aware that his breathing wasn't all that steady either, and cleared his own throat, deciding that maybe he'd overstayed his invitation. "If we're going to get the drop on the Rocket Gang again tomorrow, I'd better get some rest."

When Giuseppe looked at him, his expression was unreadable. Marco wasn't sure if it was an approving glance, or if perhaps he couldn't find the right words to ask Marco to stay. The young crime lord had so few vices, which was impressive for a fifteen-year-old with so much responsibility; but it was _how_ he managed his feelings and emotions that was perhaps his biggest weakness. Marco, on the other hand, wasn't so afraid of his own feelings. He was only a year senior his friend, so he couldn't chalk it up to age or wisdom. No, it was something else, something that couldn't be learned in any book.

"My liege," came a soft, smoky voice.

Both their heads turned on their shoulders. Priestess Rue was now standing in the doorway, the room suddenly illuminating around her bright coat of red and yellow fur.

Giuseppe quickly pointed Marco toward the door. "Leave us," he said in a low voice.

It wasn't spoken in malice or scorn, yet it still twisted into Marco like a blunt dagger. He should have seen it coming, to be fair. Whenever Giuseppe stood in Rue's presence, he seemed a different person, and it was becoming harder and harder for Marco to tell if it was just a forced facade or if the kingpin was actually wrapped around the Delphox's finger.

"At once, Boss Giuseppe," Marco obeyed finally, turning to leave and grinding his teeth as attempted to brush past Rue. She swept in front of him, however, and set one of her silky black hands upon his cheek—as she frequently did with Giuseppe, before blessing him—and smiled.

"Ronazak shines through you, young smuggler," the Pokémon said, laughter and song in the tones of her telepathic voice.

Marco, for all the heat coming from the Pokémon fiery wand, felt a familiar chill crawl down from the base of his skull to the small of his back, and shuddered. It was the very same chill he'd felt from her while she was standing over Ignazio's body.

He nodded once, not knowing what else to do or say, and stepped around her to retreat into the corridor outside. He started to shut the door behind him, but as he spotted Rue gliding over to Giuseppe's side through the narrowing slit, something in his gut shouted for him not to shut the door all the way.

And so he didn't, pulling it ajar to the tiniest crack, one neither Giuseppe or Rue detected and one he could peer through just well enough. He didn't like that it had come to eavesdropping, but he was tired of waiting around for answers. He just had to know what sort of game this witch was playing at. He had to know if his friend was in danger of her. He'd sworn to give his life for Giuseppe and protect him, and this was him sticking to his word.

"Is it war then?" Rue asked after a lengthy lull.

Giuseppe nodded stiffly, pacing over to his book collection, not looking at her. "So long as my mother continues to disregard me, it is. The Saffron Mafia and the Rocket Gang cannot share the criminal underworld. The sooner she learns it, the less pain she'll be in for."

The Pokémon smiled. "Your mother is but an obstacle you must overcome."

"Yes, you've always loved pointing out the obvious, haven't you?" growled the Giuseppe. Marco noticed how his large hands were gripping the bookshelf as if to crumble it.

But the sarcastic jabs seemed to bounce off Rue, and she came up behind Giuseppe, resting a hand over the same spot on his shoulder Marco had touched just minutes ago. "You're troubled. How may I serve you, my liege?"

He spun on her. "Don't call me that."

"But that is what you are," she said musically. "And I am but a servant."

"Yes, but not to _me_ ," he ground out in a low rumble. "Only to that psychic god of yours that you worship."

"Ronazak."

"A Pokémon," he spat.

The great red tufts on her ears stood up, and she offered a subtle shrug. "A monster, yes, but one that cannot be confined to any mortal's pocket. Ronazak resides in a realm of space far removed from ours, yet we live in his shadow, all the same."

"And you're his mouthpiece."

"I am more than just a messenger," she explained, her smile never wavering. "And you are more than just a soldier in his battle plan. You are his champion, Giuseppe. You are his chosen. You will recreate this miserable world as he sees fit—into something beautiful."

He shook his head staunchly. "I am doing my duty and nothing more," he said, narrowing his eyes. "But if it's so important that this space god of yours sees me succeed in my ambitions, go ahead and tell him to help me already."

This time _she_ shook her head. "I tell him nothing. I simply pray for his commands and obey."

He got in her face suddenly, and it was the closest thing to real anger Marco had ever witnessed in Giuseppe. "You seem to miss the fact," he growled through clenched teeth. "My mother commands hundreds of Rocket grunts and field agents, soldiers whose allegiance rightly belongs to me. She has funds and resources and properties, all of which belongs to me by inheritance and to my family as restitution. If she will not give these things to me, I will make her bleed them. Do you understand?"

She cupped his chin, almost lovingly. "You must have faith, my liege."

"Faith?" he barked, and tore his face from her hand. "I am confident in the arms at my disposal, but religion has never helped me, not once."

"Because you are a man of science and logic," the Pokémon replied, a poor counterargument in Marco's mind. "Ronazak does not deal in such absolutes."

Giuseppe looked rightfully offended at that. "Then he is useless to me, just like every other god and Legendary and Mythical that fanatics like to rave about."

Rue raised her arm, that wand-like stick slipping out from her sleeve of fur again and sliding gracefully into her hand. "I have seen the path to victory in the fire," she said, and as the wand suddenly caught flame, she brought it in front of him. "The men serving you have begun to doubt you, and so now you have begun to doubt yourself. And what is doubt but the sin of unbelief, fogging your sight?"

Giuseppe grimaced and turned his head away from the torch in a sharp motion. It almost looked to Marco like he was trying very hard to resist it.

"So let me burn that fog away for you," Rue whispered, and spun, the embers flying off her wand and swarming to the brazier in the corner of the room, almost as if compelled by some divine force. The object ignited instantly, and Marco shrunk away from the door for a moment, taken aback. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen. The flames rising from the brazier weren't just one color. They were a prism—yellows, greens, blues, reds.

It was beautiful, and terrifying.

Giuseppe glanced at her for a moment, and Marco hoped he would find the strength to resist, maybe say something to bury her ridiculous prophecy talk in the grave where it belonged; but his eyes were drawn to some movement in the spectrum of flames, and he slowly turned toward it. Rue moved behind the teenager, pressing on his shoulder blades and nudging his feet into motion.

"Look into the flames, Giuseppe," she whispered. "Truly look."

Marco clenched his fists as the urge to barge in racked through him, but he held fast against the door, knowing not to give away his position. He carefully watched Giuseppe from behind as he slowly walked up to the brazier, now of his own will. Marco couldn't see his friend's eyes anymore though. He couldn't see whatever shapes or visions or magic were dancing in the great fire.

"Do you see it, my liege?" Rue kept on coaxing all the while, leaning in beside Giuseppe to share his view. "Do you see the path to victory?"

Giuseppe didn't nod, but he pulled his feet closer to the brazier, his face just shy of the flames now. He seemed curious more than anything else, but not entranced. Marco might have found some reassurance in that, but the more Rue kept spouting her praises and deceptions into the kingpin's ear, the more Marco worried for his friend. If he wasn't fully under her power now, he would be soon.

"You will win this war," she went on, like a hypnotist in her prime, "and you will win the one after that. Just have faith, my liege. Faith in Ronazak. Faith in his power. Faith in _me_."

Marco tore himself away from the door, unable to stand the scene any longer, and stormed down the corridor. Something had to be done, and fast. He knew this now. He wouldn't follow in Ignazio's steps, but he would find some way to pull his best friend away from the Pokémon and her dangerous magic. Giuseppe's welfare depended on it. The fate of the Saffron Mafia depended on it. Everything they'd suffered and fought for depended on it.

 **TO BE CONTINUED . . .**

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **1.** This story finally has a cover art, courtesy of the talented SakurahimeArt on Deviantart. A larger version can be found on the website, for anyone interest.

 **2.** This chapter was initially longer, but I've had some readers express concerns about chapter length in general, so I decided to divide this one into two. I have a feeling I'll be doing this a lot, but I don't mind. On one hand, it will help establish something resembling an upload schedule so that I'm not laboring over one chapter for weeks at a time.

 **3.** Obviously, Ronazak is my own idea and not a real Pokémon in the official canon. I wouldn't even classify it as a Pokémon, per se, but since the term Ultra Beast hasn't been invented yet at this point in the timeline, I have to be a bit vague.

 **Next Chapter:** Gio and Delia reevaluate their roles in each other's lives; Aurora braces Jaxton for the worst; Tucker finds he has made a strong impression on Cubone; an old foe arrives in Viridian City with a proposition for Gio.


	5. Broken Man

.

.

 **Short Change Hero**

 **Chapter 5: Broken Man**

"A news flash just came in! There was an important announcement from the Pokémon academic circle! Unbelievably, the oldest Pokémon in the world has just been discovered!"

"Roland, are you hearing this?" gasped Tucker, holding the scanner to his ear and grinning from ear to ear as he and his best friend walked toward the school bus at the end of the fence. He'd had the radio powered on since the last bell, not even waiting to get on the bus first. It was like this itch that couldn't be scratched. And every second spent jailed away in a classroom, there was that nagging fear that he was missing something _big_. He could only excuse himself to go to the bathroom so many times before the teacher eventually caught on.

"Its name is Kabutops," the broadcast went on, setting off another spark in Tucker's restless bones, "and it is said to have retained its original form since two million years ago."

An excited laugh slipped out of Tucker, and he wasn't sure where it came from. He hoped he wasn't going crazy. He just couldn't help himself. Boy, what a time it was to be alive, at the height of this new Pokémon discovery craze! This really _was_ history in the making!

Roland didn't let the noise go unnoticed. "You're a spaz, Tuck. Just sayin'."

Tucker shrugged, smiled, and glanced down at the radio again. "An actual prehistoric Pokémon," he whispered in awe. "Gee, my dad is probably going nuts over this."

Roland was walking ahead of him now, the cranking of the bus engine quickening his steps. "That's great and all, Tuck, but we're gonna miss our ride back to Pallet if we don't hurry."

"You go on ahead, save me a seat," the skinnier boy murmured, bringing the scanner to his ear again. He hoped that, with luck, Kabutops wasn't the only archaeological find made.

"According to researchers, this Pokémon is—"

He stumbled suddenly, the radio thrown from his hands and sent crashing to the sidewalk before he even realized he'd been smacked into from behind. He got down on all fours, scrambling to scoop up the batteries rolling away. A sneaker stamped on the last one before he could reach for it and he looked up at the tall shadow falling over him.

"Whoops," Brandon Becker said halfheartedly with a smug smirk as he dusted off his own shoulder. "Did I bump into you, Oak? Guess I wasn't looking where I was going."

Tucker glowered up at him but kept his mouth shut, not giving the jerk or his phony apology the time of day. As if it wasn't obvious this was payback for what had happened on the field earlier.

Brandon laughed, lifted his sneaker, and kicked the battery into the grass before heading off toward the school bus. "See ya around, Oak."

Grunting, Tucker crawled to where the battery had landed, picked it up, and inserted it back into the scanner. After inspecting it for damages, he slung his backpack onto his lap and stuffed the device inside it, deciding it was safer there until he got home. He didn't want to give Brandon a second shot at turning it to scrap.

He was about to get to his feet, but froze, feeling a whisper or a draft against the back of his neck. It lasted maybe a second, but it felt like longer, and every other noise just seemed to die off. He felt like he was outside his own body, distant from himself, watching himself. And not just himself. Someone else.

No, _something_ else.

A Pokémon. Just the shape though... just the impression.

Then it passed like a shadow, and he snapped back to the present. He turned his head on his shoulders, reacting anyhow. And that was when he knew whatever had just happened was real. Because Cubone was standing outside the fence just a few feet away.

"What the…" He let the sentence trail off, and laughed, shuffling closer to the fence on his knees. "I was literally just thinking about you, little fella! Talk about weird."

The skull-wearing Pokémon blinked up at him with sharp, curious eyes and a kind of supplicating look. Tucker smiled, shaking his head. The fact that Cubone had left his stump just to come to see him warmed him as much as it chilled; he worried the Pokémon had taken a liking to him because there was no one else to watch out for the little guy.

"Did you follow me all the way from school?" he asked, curling his fingers through the fence. Cubone said nothing, of course, and Tucker briefly glanced up toward the orange sky with a frown. "You know, you probably shouldn't be out here. After sundown, these streets belong to Team Righteous. And Cubone aren't exactly common around here, so they wouldn't think twice about snatching you up."

The Pokémon had no idea what he was saying, rattling his bone club against the mesh wire like a toddler bored out of his mind. Tucker swore he even heard his little tummy rumbling, and chuckled. Now it all made sense.

"So you still have a hankering, huh?" He swung his backpack over his lap and reached into the front pouch, pulling out an unopened package of biscuit sticks. The Pokémon's eyes lit up. "I was saving this one for the bus ride, but I have boxes more of them at home." He took one out of the wrapper and tried slipping it through the fence. "Go on, it's all yours."

Cubone tilted his head, his tiny hand raised in a grasping motion but too nervous to reach any further. Tucker sighed, and dropped it through the fence, making it easier for the little critter. That did the trick, and the stick was already halfway down the Pokémon's gullet before Tucker could pull out the next one.

"Keep it up and you're gonna end up with a whopper of a stomach ache," he laughed, sitting down more comfortably in the grass. He didn't remember what time it was or where he was supposed to be until he heard Roland's voice echo down the sidewalk.

"Hurry up, Tuck!"

Cursing himself, he whipped his head left, spotting the last of the students piling into the bus up ahead. He dropped the package to the ground and shot up on his legs, his feet twisting beneath him. He hesitated, though, when he remembered Cubone, and he peered through the fence a final time. The Pokémon was gone, having been scared off by Roland's shouting. Tucker sighed, but decided it was for the best.

After sprinting up the road and narrowly making it to the stop, he climbed into the bus just as its doors were about to shut on him. He panted his way down the aisle toward the empty seat Roland was saving at the very back. He did his best to avoid eye contact with the students jeering at him for holding up the driver, Brandon among them. A spitball hit his face, but he wiped it off nonchalantly.

He fell into his seat with a huff. Beside him, Roland was looking at him like he was a Pidgey with a clipped wing.

"Sorry, Tuck," the larger boy murmured, handing him a tissue. Tucker took it, rubbing off the saliva still smudging his cheek.

"No biggie."

Roland nodded and nudged Tucker with his elbow, grinning. "Well, you always did wonder what it would be like to be the center of attention, didn't you?"

"I guess," Tucker laughed with him, zipping open his backpack to fish out his radio. Then his hands went still when he remembered Cubone, and he twisted around in his seat, pushing himself up on his knees to look out the back of the bus. He squinted at the spot where he'd been reunited with his Pokémon friend, his eyes combing the grass and discovering the packaged snack he'd left behind was gone.

"Tuck, what is it?" asked Roland.

"He went back for it!"

"What?"

"He went back for it," Tucker echoed, softly this time.

"Who went back for what?"

"Cubone," he whispered, smiling as he faced forward and fell back into his seat. "I left him a package of biscuit sticks. He took it."

Roland's mouth was hanging open. "You had leftovers and you didn't give them to _me_? Some friend you are."

Blowing out a sigh, Tucker loosened his uniform tie, tossed his book bag to the floor, and hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. He stared into the back of the chair in front of him, just thinking about Cubone, wondering if the Pokémon had gone back to his tree stump where it was safe to eat his fill… wondering if Team Righteous might spot him… wondering if the little guy really was all alone in the world, without a family or a Trainer… wondering...

And out of nowhere, he was struck by it again. That bizarre sensation from earlier, tingling in his bones, his fingertips, the hairs on his neck. Heck, everywhere. Or maybe nowhere? He couldn't be sure where it was coming from or if it was even real. But he felt like he could… _see_ Cubone, right there with him, on the bus. Like a hallucination, or an image, or a feeling. It didn't make any dang sense.

"Tucker?"

The twelve-year-old flinched at Roland's voice, the feeling or impression or whatever slipping away from him. He straightened and turned his head, blinking at his friend.

"Where did you go?" Roland asked, waving a hand in front of his friend's face.

"Uh," Tucker croaked, not sure any answer would make sense to either of them. So he just shrugged, scratching behind his neck with an impish grin. "I'm not sure, honestly."

Roland laughed, giving the smaller boy's shoulder a little shove. "Has that radio of yours finally fried your brain?"

"Funny," Tucker laughed along with him, masking his unease. He wondered if Roland was right though. Maybe too many days caged up in classrooms and laboratories was finally catching up to him, driving him bonkers. Because… what else could it have been?

* * *

A painful whine pressed past Jax's lips, gaining volume as he became more aware, his fingers curling into the sheets. He took a shuddering breath and then opened his eyes. The horrible agony in them brought a shiver to Aurora's spine. She might have scolded herself for not having done enough to numb his pain, but she knew the Grandmaster would have sensed that unbalance within her and scolded her even harder once he returned.

And he would have been right to. The young man under her care was lucky to be alive. She could take heart in that, at least.

Even so, watching Jax come to, she felt the bitter taste of panic collecting on her tongue, tried to rein it in and failed as the human kept struggling for breath that wouldn't spew forth. His arms flailed, gripping at his chest desperately, almost as if trying to wrestle out the pain beneath the ugly lacerations left by the rocks he'd been crushed under. That finally sparked Aurora into action.

"No! You'll only make it worse!" She grabbed at his hands and met the wild fear reflecting back to her from his round, electric blue eyes. "Please! Your injuries can't heal if you keep irritating them!"

Jax seemed to at least grasp what she was saying even as his mouth worked wordlessly to take in tiny panting breaths. She hadn't prepared for him to rouse so abruptly. Until now, he'd never truly woke, save for the occasional fleeting few seconds of slipping in and out of consciousness. This was her first time actually meeting his eyes since she found him half-buried in that ravine.

"Hurts." He grunted the word like a plea. His head tossed left and right, eyes squinting into the darkness of the Grandmaster's chambers. "Where am I? What's going on?"

"You're safe, Jax," she assured him. "Don't worry."

His gaze slid to the window behind the Grandmaster's desk, where pitch darkness reigned. "Is it… nighttime?"

"I imagine so," she replied, even though she couldn't be certain; beneath the ground, there was no sun, moon, or sky to tell time from. Not that he needed to know any of that right now.

"How long have I been out?" he hissed as he tried shifting his weight. She reached out again, steadying him.

"Over a week now," she estimated. "But as I said, you're in a safe place. No harm will come to you here."

He looked neither impressed nor convinced, and she sensed another surge of panic rising in his chest. His hand came up and slid through his dark, fuchsia hair, which was damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. "Why is the air so hot? I can hardly breathe!"

"I'm sorry," she said, huffing. "The ventilation in these parts of the Under Region isn't the best. The Grandmaster is still trying to find a way to refine it without having to rely on the Coalition's technology."

He looked at her as if she'd spoken a foreign language. "Under... Region? Coalition?"

"Maybe… I've said too much," she said, frowning as his gaze traveled down to his bandaged arms and legs. His expression twisted tighter as he soaked in the extent of his injuries. She could sense his memories of his encounter with Brutis trickling back, bubbling up faster and faster as a tight breath pinched through his teeth.

"I can't feel my legs," he croaked, and she leaned across the bed and ran a comforting paw along one of the torpid appendages, even as her stomach turned at his words. Despite all her healing prowess, that was something she couldn't mend.

Focusing on her Aura and his, she gingerly glided her paws over his gashed chest instead, since that was the next best thing she could do for him. She hadn't bandaged the wound like the others, making it easier for access. While closed and stitched, the tears still ran deep, scattered and ranging from his upper torso, up across the collarbone. She didn't need to imagine how each one might have burned from the slightest muscle movement. She could feel it all tangibly from simply making contact with his energy, echoing up her paws, vibrating through her own body.

"What do you remember from your fall?" she asked, if only to distract them both from the throes of his pain. He stared off into the shadows, wincing whenever she grazed a tender spot.

"There was a guy in a red cloak. I wouldn't give him the case. He rounded on me." He paused, swallowing hard. "Next thing I knew I was staring straight into his hood."

"And after that?"

He shook his head. "It's all a blur."

She adjusted her pressure on his wound, pressing down more firmly even as a sharp inhale ghosted down his throat. "You're lucky to be alive, you know."

His lips were twisted into a grimace and a tiny whimper bit past his teeth, but he nodded a little. "Yeah, sure."

"That is, no one has ever looked upon Lord Brutis's face and lived to tell the tale," she elaborated, hoping to help him appreciate his circumstances a little more.

"I didn't actually see his face," he revealed with a shrug. "But still... it felt like I knew him somehow."

She wasn't sure what to make of that, so she moved on to the next thought orbiting her mind. "And the man who hired your team? The one in blue who gave you your disguises?"

He shook his head again. "I never saw his face either," he said. "He just wanted whatever artifact was in that case. He said he'd pay us a fortune to steal it from some underground fortress. He even gave Kirby the layout and blueprints." His eyes briefly danced around the chamber. "Is that where we are now?"

"Not exactly," she answered as vaguely as possible. She liked Jax, but trusting him was another matter entirely.

"That Brutis guy," he sneered the name. "He's from this place too? The... Subregion? What did you call it?"

"The Under Region," she corrected, then paused to consider his lack of familiarity. "I take it you weren't the one to actually infiltrate the fortress then."

"No, that was all Kirby and his men. I was the getaway driver, so I only saw the entrance." He went quiet, then snorted a laugh that sounded self-deprecating. "Some great getaway that turned out to be, huh?"

She frowned, sensing anguish and bitterness underlying the amused front he was putting up. He was carrying all the weight of his failed mission, probably because he was the only one left alive to carry it. While he was lucky to have survived, the fact wasn't lost on him, and it obviously wasn't of any comfort to him either. Even without using the Aura, she could tell he was hating himself right now, beating himself up over something he couldn't possibly have stopped.

"They're all dead," he whispered brokenly, a hitching but angry tremble in his throat. "Kirby… my whole team... I let them down. I screwed up."

"I'm sorry for your losses," she offered solemnly. "But this isn't your fault. There are more forces at play than you realize. That's why it's too dangerous for you to stay here any longer than necessary. If the Grandmaster is right and war is coming, we can't have you getting caught up in it."

"Too late," he sniffed coldly, glancing back down at his paralyzed legs, both of them sticking out from his tattered, soot-covered pants like lifeless noodles. She felt his heartbeat quicken in his chest, each one feeling like one too many, a fierce and frightening rage pressing in to suffocate him. She'd never seen a person so angry at everything and nothing, so broken both within and without. She knew she couldn't form attachments, but she still suffered just seeing _him_ suffer.

She eventually drew her paws back to her sides, slumping her shoulders with a winded exhale. She wanted to maintain her calmness and bravado, to bolster him up and keep him from slipping under the rising tide, but the sea of emotions had already claimed him. Even if he wasn't dead, he was drowning all the same, sinking in guilt and hopelessness and self-loathing. She sensed this wasn't just about losing his comrades though. No, these feelings had to run deeper than that.

"You're an Aura User, aren't you?" he asked at random, snapping her out of her reverie. "You and your master?"

Knowing to tread carefully, she answered his question with a question of her own. "What do you know about Aura?"

"More than I ever wanted to," he grumbled vaguely, perhaps giving her a taste of her own medicine. As he tossed his head in frustration, his pink locks clustered around his high, pale forehead and fringed the edge of his face, brushing his cheekbones. "So what will happen to me now?"

She frowned, knowing the answer wouldn't meet to his liking. "You'll be returned to the surface where you belong," she started, holding back the gut punch. "But… you won't remember anything past the last week or so. Mother Lavender and her clan will be here soon to see to that. They are witches, for lack of better words, but they won't bring any harm to you."

"Seriously? You're going to make me forget?"

She simply nodded, unable to speak through the constriction in her mind. The look of betrayal in his face was too much, even for her.

He had his fists balled up now. "Well, how am I supposed to get revenge on the asshole who killed my fellow mercs and left me this way, if I can't even remember him?"

She frowned. "You don't, Jax. You move on."

An unsettling beat of silence fell between them.

"I guess I don't get a say then," he muttered, the wroth tremble in his voice returning and impossible to miss.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into his mind, draining the word of any meaning or value at this point; it was starting to sound irritating even in her own head.

"Does that mean I'll forget _you,_ too?"

"I'm afraid so."

He scowled, looking away. "Figured."

"I'm sorry, but," she struggled for what to say for a moment, wrinkling her snout. "You'll be safer up there with your family than you will be down here with me. I'm sure they're worried sick about you. After we've returned you to the surface, I'll find a way to contact them anonymously and let them know where to find you."

"Thanks, but no thanks," he rebuffed quickly. "I don't need my father. I'll be fine on my own."

 _His father_. Ryker Titian. It was starting to click, most of the pieces; she reined in those thoughts though. It was harmless enough forming theories about Jax whilst he was sleeping, but her master had cautioned her not to overstep and pry into his personal affairs. Granted, that rule would have been much easier to follow back when she'd been a shy and unassuming Riolu.

So, she elected to try another approach, one more fitting of an Aura Guardian straddling the line of neutrality. "I don't know exactly how you fell in with the crowd that you did," she began. "Frankly, it's none of my business. I just hope you make different choices when you wake up again. It's just… I can't promise that I'll be there to save you again the next time something goes wrong."

"I don't need saving." His voice was tenser and more clipped than Aurora had ever heard it. His anger seemed directed at _her_ now for even making that harmless suggestion, and she took it as her cue to leave and allow him some space to work through his feelings alone. She didn't want to do more harm than good at this point. She couldn't afford to compromise his recovery and her own training in trying to strike a friendship.

She offered him a small, endearing smile as she walked backward on mooring feet. "Goodbye, Jax. I was very glad to have met you," she said, then turned toward the doors.

"You never told me your name." His flat voice reached her from across the chamber, spinning her back around. "Or is it just Lucario?"

"Aurora," she answered, blinking slowly at him.

He glared at her as he laid prostrate and miserable on the cot. "Well, Aurora, maybe when you've lived what I've lived through, you'll get why I'm a little heated right now."

"I carry scars just as you do, Jax," she said numbly, her thoughts going back to the many friends she'd known before coming to Sinnoh, all of them distant memories now. "I've lived through quite a few miseries myself. And I've had people I cared about taken from me, so many that I've lost count."

His singed brow furrowed. "And, what, you just magically got over it somehow?"

She shook her head. "You never get over it. You just get _through_ it."

He fell silent, though the sharp expression he wore only deepened. Even so, she left before emotion could take over again, knowing there was nothing else she could say or do to quell his troubled state. The best thing for him, she knew, was to forget and press forward—and to stay out of trouble, even if just for her own peace of mind.

* * *

Sunlight peeked through the bedroom windows, beaming down on Delia's face. She twisted and turned as she came out of her sleepy state, a smile positively glowing on her face. She stretched her arms and legs as her thoughts went back to the night before. She remembered barely even setting foot off Diamond Dust before Gio was carrying her bridal-style into the manor and up the stairs. She'd never experienced such passion from him, such need. He'd made it seem like they'd been apart for years, not weeks. It made her feel special, just how much he always treasured each visit more than the last, yet she couldn't help but feel like there was something else underneath it all. Something he wasn't sharing.

When she didn't feel his body beside her, she rubbed her eyes and looked around, finding him sitting over his side of the bed, his back arched and facing her. He had thrown on a pair of shorts, so she had to guess he'd been awake for some time. From the way his shoulders were bunching and his head was bent, he must have been looking at something, and she wasn't sure she wanted to disturb him just yet. If there was ever a moment to glimpse the peaceful, vulnerable side to him, this might have been it. She'd hope to get him to open up during their date at the Gym yesterday, but it had backfired, and she was still regretting her handling of that.

She sat up quietly on the mattress, palming the soft bed sheets and bringing them close to her heart, covering her naked frame. She watched him as he was for a moment, and it all of a sudden hit her just how much he'd grown from a teenager into a man in only a few short years. He'd been tall and somewhat lean when she first met him, but now he'd filled out. Raw strength rippled across his shoulders and back, and his biceps bulged in a startling display of power. She could tell that even without Pokémon he could put up a good fight and still come out of it victorious.

But what told the real story were the scars on him, scattered and faded as they were. They all came from a different place and time, and sometimes she would just stare at them, wondering how much they hurt not just physically, but mentally, too. Each scar was a memory, and even for all his effort to forget the past, she knew he could never erase those. The courage he'd displayed when protecting she and Tucker from a rampaging Zapdos clone had left him with two on his lower back; and another across his right hip bone recalled his violent brawl with Kyden in Professor Wade's laboratory. The largest, snaking along the upper column of his spine, told the story of his brush with death in the Distortion World, something she hadn't been there to witness firsthand yet could still imagine given how deep it ran.

How in the world had they survived everything they did, she wondered? How could anyone possibly forget those experiences?

She scooched down the bed a little, leaning her head out to the side to sneak a peek at whatever it was he was hunched over and squinting at. His eyes were set in deep focus as his fingers paged through a brown, leather-bound notebook, one that looked so familiar to her. If she remembered right, they'd risked their lives on more than one occasion to keep that darn thing safe.

"Isn't that your father's journal?" she asked softly as soon as it hit her. She hadn't seen it in years, yet it was another piece of his Ketchum identity she knew he could never bury. He wouldn't have kept it around otherwise.

He didn't stir. "It is."

"You miss him, don't you?" She ran her fingers comfortingly over the lines of his strong back, putting a puzzled frown on his brow as he turned his head to her.

"What makes you say that?"

"Just a feeling," she said, with a shrug and a smile. She feathered her hand across his shoulder next, feeling the muscles twitch as she tickled him a little. "I also happen to know you're a big softy, at heart."

He laughed through his nose, shutting the journal with a snap and setting it down on the floor. He twisted around and crawled toward her on the bed, bringing his face to hers. She met his lips as they approached, but a part of her couldn't help feel a little disappointed at how quick he'd been to chuck the heirloom aside upon realizing she was watching. She didn't like this wall he'd put up between them. If he was hiding something or felt ashamed of something, she didn't want to be kept in the dark where she couldn't help him.

"Care to join me in the shower?" he whispered between smothering kisses, smirking. That's when she pulled her lips away and glanced at the clock, remembering the promise she'd made to her mother.

"I'll have to take a rain check on that," she giggled.

He grinned down at her, his mouth stretching bigger and bigger the longer he stared at her, "Not even if I begged?" Delia shook her head, and she could feel the vibrations of his laugh in his whole chest as he leaned into her again. "Well," he chuckled into her neck, snaking his arms beneath her and pulling her into a crushing embrace. "Maybe you just need a little incentive."

She laughed against her will, and pushed against his shoulders in vain, trying to squirm free. His lips never left her skin though; he kissed her jaw, the juncture of her neck, trailing a pathway from her earlobe to her forehead. "You don't know how long I've been waiting to kiss you like this again," he husked, breathing out a quiet laugh, "and you don't know how bad I want to just stay in bed with you all weekend," he muttered, kissing her cheeks and nose again, "all the time, I want to hold you this way, like, _all_ the time," he mouthed against her neck. It tickled, and again she giggled.

"Gio, stop!" she finally managed to get out between laughs, bringing a finger to his hungry lips. "I really can't. If I'm late to work, my mother won't ever let me hear the end of it."

His head suddenly jerked back. "Work?"

She nodded, and this time when she pushed against him, he sat up on his knees. She wrapped the sheet around her body, sitting up with him when she noticed his frown and gently dragging her toe against his leg. "Gio? You don't need to give me a ride, really. I'll take the bus."

"I thought we'd agreed you were going to spend the whole weekend," he muttered, and that's when it hit her that she hadn't told him. Legendaries, how had she been so dumb?

"I _am_ , I _will_ ," she rushed to console him, smiling in the hopes that he might smile with her. "I promise I'll be back tonight and we can spend the day together tomorrow."

He took a deep breath, then turned his head from her sharply, nostrils flaring. This was that tense, uncomfortable moment at the Gym all over again.

She leaned forward, reaching for his hand and squeezing it affectionately. "I tried to get the whole weekend, Gio. I really did. It's just… with money being so tight and this whole thing with my father—"

"Fine," he grumbled, still not looking at her.

"I meant to tell you last night," she said, grinning bashfully as a blush heated her cheeks, "but… then things sort of took a different turn and—"

"Forget it." He yanked his hand from hers and swung his legs around to sit on the bed's edge again. "It's fine. Just drop it."

Her stomach churned seeing him act this way, hearing his tone so hurt and upset and betrayed, even though he was going to great lengths to hide it. Responsibilities and jobs and being adults—the more these things drove a wedge between them, the more desperate for her affection he became. She was his life preserver just as she'd always been, but it was different now. She felt like she always was oceans apart from him, too far out of reach to truly save him from drowning anymore. Part of that was because he simply wouldn't let her, even when she _did_ make time for him. How could he be so dependent on her for love and affection, yet never be willing to open up to her in return?

She shuffled on her knees, moving in behind him and bringing a hand to his rigid shoulder. "There's something else bothering you," she whispered, an observation and not a question.

He shook his head, jaw clenching. "I said I'm fine."

"You can say it all you want, but I don't believe a word of it." When he still wouldn't look her in the eye, she sighed and moved next to him. "Talk to me. Please. You never do anymore."

"I just…" He dragged out a breath through his nostrils, his eyes briefly squeezing shut and then blinking open again. "I just miss _being_ with you."

Her stomach clenched hearing that admission, the sadness in his voice registering louder than the words themselves. She touched his arm encouragingly, letting him know that this was okay, that this was what she wanted from him. Simple honesty.

"Go on," she uttered softly, boring into the side of his face. He swallowed over a lump, vulnerable again.

"The world may have been saved, but I've still been fighting these past couple years," he started, staring up at the white ceiling. He didn't seem to want to look her in the eye, as if ashamed of the words coming out of him. "There are these moments lately where I just feel so tightly wound up, like a... fiddle string about to snap. And it's not like the old days where you were right there at all times and I could just reach out for you to keep me centered."

He was quiet for a moment, then continued. "You keep saying I've matured, mellowed out. But I think I've gotten worse. I don't just get angry about things anymore either. I… bottle it up until it feels like I'm about to explode. The memories of who I used to be, back in the old days… they're starting to feel more and more like a different person. The things I used to care about… I feel like I don't anymore. I try to hold it all together, for you, for me… but it's so hard, Delia."

She kissed his shoulder, murmured against his warm flesh, "Then stop trying so hard."

"It's not that simple." His gaze slipped from the ceiling to the floor, further away from her. She lifted his chin with her fingers, turning his face to meet her eyes.

"Listen to me," she said, not holding back. "You can change your name, your identity… but you will always be Giovanni Ketchum. Do you hear me?"

He blinked at her. "But that's just it, Delia. I'm not."

"You are." She moved her hand to his cheek, dragging her thumb back and forth. His hand slowly came up to rest atop hers.

"I'm not that man you remember from our adventures," he explained in a flat voice that occasionally cracked. "I'm… broken. And I know that's what everyone else thinks of me too. I know what Sam says about me behind my back these days, I know what your mom sees in me. They all think less of me because of the identity I threw away, or because the people I associate with, or the privacy I keep. It's like everyone is trying to turn someone else against me and I don't know how to make it right. I don't feel like I belong anywhere, Delia."

Her heart splintered, but she shook her head, staying strong for him. "I don't care what anyone else says," she told him flat out. "They don't get to see you the way I get to see you. They don't know you like I do. And I _do_ know you, Gio. I know you're that same loving, caring person I fell in love with five years ago, and I know that's the person I'm _still_ in love with. And I'm not the only one who still sees the best parts of you."

He didn't say anything for a moment. He must have been thinking of Tucker and Meowth and the other Pokémon, and hopefully finding some comfort knowing that they all still adored him just as much as she did. He wasn't totally alone or abandoned, and he needed to see as much.

"Don't be ashamed or upset," she continued quietly after she'd given him time to consider those things. "Don't lose control. You're a good, decent man. If other people don't want to see that, that's their loss."

"If only you knew," he murmured absently.

"If only I knew what?"

He left the question unanswered. He pulled her hand from his face but held onto it for dear life, almost as if terrified to let her go. "Delia," he husked, a fierce and passionate glint in his eye. "When all is said and done, everything that I do… I do for you. Because you're the one thing I _can't_ lose."

"You won't." She leaned into his side, dropping her forehead to his shoulder and running her hand up and down his back. "I'm right here. And I'm not going anywhere."

"No."

She looked up at him, taken aback by the word.

"That isn't fair of me to ask of you," he whispered, reaching down and picking up the journal he'd left on the floor. He gripped it tightly.

"Gio?" she murmured, at a loss for real words.

"I may not have a father to talk to anymore," he rasped, his eyes jumping from the book to weakly hold her gaze. "But... _you_ still do. So make the most of what time you have left with him."

"What are you saying?" Her eyes stung and she blinked them quickly, trying to dispel the moisture before it became too much.

"Go home to your folks," he said, his voice tight, the words clearly hurting him to speak. "That's where you're needed most. Not here."

"I don't want to leave you when you're like this," she replied over a tearful lump in her throat.

He shrugged slowly. "It's not about what _we_ want anymore. We're leading different lives now."

She blinked, then after a long moment, stood up from the bed and faced him, still holding the sheet just above her bare chest. "When we were on that boat sailing away from Savile Island, you told me that I was your future."

"I'm not giving up on that future," he grunted, rising to his own feet. "I said I wouldn't lose you and I meant it." He inhaled, then exhaled. "But I can't be your responsibility, Delia. I can't ask you to stop living your life in the present just because of whatever I'm going through. That's selfish. My burden is mine to carry, not yours."

She closed the space between them until they were touching from chest to toes, and she reached up with her free hand, cupping his face one last time. "You don't have to carry it alone," she pleaded.

His own eyes were red with unshed tears, but hardened. "For now, I think I have to," he said hoarsely. "You said it yourself just yesterday. We're adults now. We have obligations, people depending on us. And we have to do what we have to do."

She couldn't find words to that, and he didn't give her the chance, stepping around her to set his father's journal on the dresser across the bedroom. When she turned around, he was already digging through his drawers for a fresh shirt, as if nothing had happened. He was putting on a brave face, but she knew this wasn't easy for him, and she didn't want to make it even harder by refusing to let the matter go. She'd wanted honesty, and he'd given it to her.

So why did she still feel so awful about all of this? Why did she feel even more disconnected from him now than before?

After throwing a shirt on, he circled back to her and grabbed his pants and leather jacket lying neglected on the floor. "You should get showered and dressed. After we have breakfast, I'll take you back to Pallet Town."

She nodded without a word but walked past him, toward the dresser where Clint Ketchum's journal sat ignored. She snatched up the diary and tossed it back in Gio's direction. He reacted in time and caught it, leering at her as though she'd lost her mind. And maybe she had. Maybe the only thing left she could do for him now was let the written wisdom of a forgotten Pokémon Master take up her mantle.

"Even if you won't let me in, you don't need to fight alone," she said, pointing. He pursed his lips, looking down at the book and shaking his head.

"It's not like it was before," he said quietly. "I can't hear his voice anymore. He doesn't _speak_ to me anymore."

She shrugged a shoulder. "Or maybe you're just not listening. Maybe his voice can only reach Giovanni Ketchum, not Giovanni Sakaki."

He didn't answer, and she calmly strode past him. She tossed the sheet back on the bed, trading it for a bathrobe hanging on the door to the bathroom. She heard him wrestling his pants on behind her, then his belt. Once he was dressed, she glanced over her shoulder just in time to see him quickly slide the journal into the pocket of his jacket. She smiled a little, a bit of hope seeping back into her.

He left the bedroom in a hurry, and she stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a sigh before slumping back against it. The coming days would be a strain on their relationship, but he might have been right. Maybe this was for the best, at least for now. She could trust herself to focus on other important things for a while; she just wasn't sure she could trust _him._ Whatever his father had written in that journal, she hoped he could learn from it, and use that wisdom to keep life without her from melting through his fingers.

* * *

After dropping off Delia, the ride back from Pallet Town to Viridian City wasn't the invigorating, therapeutic high it usually was. Delia's words were still weighing on him. The idea that he couldn't run from the past… that he needed to reconnect with his old identity just to hear his father's voice again… left him cold. It was a bargain he didn't want to make. He'd been running from the Ketchum name to numb himself from old feelings, from his pain and fears and frustrations and insecurities. He'd spent the last two years keeping a weather eye on the horizon, fighting just to protect his and Delia's future.

Little good that was doing.

Pulling up to his favorite barbershop on the outskirts of town, he lifted up his helmet and rubbed a hand along his scratchy jaw, then through his hair. It was about that time again. He'd been pushing it off, but maybe he needed the little things like a shave and a cut to keep his mind distracted. He still had hours to kill before his meetup with Nanu and whatever customers he'd dragged in off the street.

When he entered the shop, bell tingling behind him, the owner dropped everything he was doing the moment he spotted Gio's face and quickly ushered him into the back, all polite smiles. The man never failed to offer him top service, an unspoken expression of gratitude toward Team Righteous for keeping his business safe from pickpockets and first-time robbers looking to make their mark.

As he was led to the back of the salon, he was struck by how many empty seats there were and how many of the Pokémon workers were just lounging around on their feet. The place was usually buzzing. Something wasn't right.

When he came to his chair, he immediately saw why, and stopped cold in his tracks.

"The man of the hour arrives!" cackled none other than Team Rocket Executive Kade Sorhagen, occupying the seat beside his. The shiny bald head had given him away first. Gio remembered seeing it on all the Briskomy billboards back in the day. Kade had been a driving force behind the company before its dissolution, highly respected in the business world and despised in the political one. He'd had a solid career and public image once, but apparently, being a full-time criminal was just as rewarding as the old days. His pink suit was still of the highest tailored quality, his shoes just as expensive but with a shine that rivaled his scalp's. The man simply never changed, regardless of whether he was wearing a Briskomy emblem or a Team Rocket emblem.

His chair was tilted back as a soft foam, smelling of lavender, was slathered across his face and scalp by a Mr. Mime. His teeth glistened as he grinned up at Gio, letting the younger man know that his presence here was no accident or coincidence. It certainly explained why the place was cleared out. This was a cleverly disguised business meeting if ever he saw one.

"What the hell do you think you're doing here?" Gio grumbled, balling his fists at his sides. He'd come here to get away from his problems, but now he'd just walked into another one. Between Delia and now this, the universe was testing his patience.

"Good to see you too, cupcake!" Kade gushed, winking up at Gio in a way that made him want to slug the Rocket right there and then, regardless of witnesses. "My, you've grown! Snipped off the spiky tips, did you? Hardly a cupcake anymore."

Gio took a threatening step forward. "Get out of my barbershop."

"Is it yours?" the other man affected innocence. "I didn't see your name on it." His smug smile widened, and he reached out to pat the empty seat next to his. "Come. Have a cut and a shave with me. It's on me."

Gio's shoulders relaxed and his fists unclenched when he remembered the shop owner standing off to the side, and he forced his feet into motion, walking rigidly to the chair and plopping down in it. The owner quickly moved behind him, cranking his seat upward.

"The usual, Mr. Giovanni?"

Gio nodded, and the shop owner snapped his fingers. A Gligar came fluttering out from the back room while his master returned to the front register. The Pokémon pulled a white towel over Gio and tied it around his neck, somehow without accidentally severing the string. It then began snipping away at his hair from the back, and Gio gripped the arms of the chair. He glared sideways at Kade, who was still wearing that devious smile.

"How the hell are you still walking free, Sorhagen?" he couldn't help asking.

Kade gave a small shrug. "Shivu and I have an understanding: Team Rocket stays out of the Military Government's business, and they stay out of ours."

Gio grimaced. "But why are you _here_?"

"I'm in the neighborhood on behalf of the Boss," the Rocket Executive replied calmly as the ambidextrous Pokémon behind him applied more shaving cream to one side of his mocha cheek.

"She's not my boss."

"All mothers are bosses." Gio twitched at those bluntly spoken words, and tension crept back into his posture. It was one thing to talk about business in public, but it was another to put names to faces in front of listening ears. And it wasn't in Gio's best interest for people to find out that his mother was the leader of the infamous Rocket Gang.

A beaming smile lit up Kade's face as he pulled himself upright in his chair. "Oh, relax, cupcake," he sighed, pointing his thumb behind his shoulder. "They're Pokémon. They have all the discretion of a cardboard box, not to mention the personality of one."

Gio let it go, and glowered at his own reflection. "So what is it you want then?"

"It's not really about what _I_ want."

"Then what does _she_ want?" he clarified crisply, meeting the older man's twinkling gaze through the latter's mirror. His eyes showed some age, something that caught Gio off guard since they were almost always hidden behind a pair of plastic shades. Today must have been a special occasion.

"Just a slight renegotiation of your arrangement with her," Kade answered, shrugging innocently.

Not liking the sound of that, Gio narrowed his eyes. "What's to negotiate? My gang helps supply her with goods and Pokémon, she keeps Team Rocket out of Viridian and Pallet. That was our deal, cut and dry."

"And now she's altering it." This drew a quiet growl from Gio. Kade noticed, and rolled his eyes with an effeminate sigh. "Oh, settle down. She's not doing this to make you dance at the ends of strings for her, amusing as that image is. Normally she wouldn't waste a thought on you, but her hands are rather tied right now, I'm afraid."

"How can…" Gio looked around briefly to see if the shop owner was around, then looked back into Kade's mirror and brought his voice down to a cold whisper. "How can her hands be tied? The Rocket Gang practically owns the black market. What, did she blow through all the profits?"

"She owes a debt," the other explained. "Well, technically, the Rocket Empire owes a debt. But seeing as how the Rocket Empire is defunct, Team Rocket is now stuck with the bill."

"Then pay it off."

"Not that simple," Kade murmured, the blade running along his upper lip making anything more impossible. The Mr. Mime working on him leaned down, taking care of the difficult crease where jaw became neck. Gio waited for the Pokémon to finish before asking the next question on his tongue.

"Since when is money an issue for you two?"

Kade craned his head a bit once he was free to do so, working his jaw. "They're demanding unreasonable funds," he replied. "I'm talking millions in counting."

"Who's demanding?" Gio asked snappily. He heard the snipping quiet behind him, and Gligar came around to prepare him for a shave, but he held up his hand, too focused on the conversation at this point to even worry about that. The Gligar bowed away quickly, leaving only Mr. Mime in their presence.

When Kade finally responded, his voice was pinched in a way Gio had never heard. "The Saffron Crime Family," he uttered. "Better known as the Saffron Mafia. Or simply the mob. Take your pick."

Gio shook his head, at a loss. He'd never encountered or even heard of any mafia during his travels through Kanto and Johto. They had to have been a quiet group to not set off his radar.

"I won't bore you with the details," sighed Kade, "but let's just say the mob had a lot riding on Torino back in the day. But then when that investment fell flat on its face, the crime families were left bankrupt and fractured. And unfortunately, they can't hold a dead man accountable."

Gio scowled. "If they're broke and powerless, crush them. Be done with it."

Kade waited until the last traces of foam were toweled off his face before replying. "That would be fabulous, but no can do. Individually, the crime families don't stack up against your mother. But together? A different story. And make no mistake, over the years they have quietly managed to pool all the manpower and resources between them in order to return to relevance. They were even able to secure a generous grant from the Pokémon Bank just before its recent dissolution." He snorted a laugh. "Of course, none of this would have even been possible if not for the man—or boy, I should say—who brought the families back together in the first place."

This got Gio's attention real quick. A crime lord who was little more than a child? And actually living up to the title?

As if reading Gio's thoughts, Kade nodded gravely, his smile vanishing. "Under Giuseppe, they're more determined and coordinated than ever, using guerrilla warfare to ambush our grunts from the shadows and plunder our shipments. We were attacked yesterday, and again just this morning. If this keeps up, we'll be behind on our quotas." His eyes met Gio's, not through the mirror this time, something in them uncharacteristically desperate. "We are slowly but surely bleeding money, Giovanni."

Gio frowned at the sorry statement, but not in pity. "How is that _my_ problem?"

The older man's eyes flickered away for a moment. "You and your biker friends are indisputably the best of the best when it comes to supplying and moving Pokémon for us," he confessed softly. "But those Pokémon aren't worth a pretty penny to Team Rocket if they end up in Giuseppe's hands, which is very much what is happening."

Gio immediately knew where this was heading, so he deflected. "Tough break. Good luck with it."

"And that being the case," Kade casually carried on with the thought, ignoring Gio's snark, "your mother had hoped to send you to Celadon City on her behalf so that you might… broker a truce with Giuseppe."

Cursing under his breath, Gio twisted his head to smack the Rocket with another fiery glare. "You'd better be joking," he snapped, anger making his voice brittle.

"We would compensate you handsomely, of course, for your trouble," Kade rushed to do damage control. "The funds would be deposited into the business account of that dingy little body shop you're running. You and your gang would be set for months."

"This is all assuming I make it off Giuseppe's turf alive, which isn't likely," Gio replied, and then snorted bitterly. "What makes you think he would even waste a breath on me?"

Kade opened his mouth, but then closed it again. It looked like he had something he wanted to say, but couldn't get it out.

And then he did.

"What if I told you he was your half-brother?"

Gio stiffened in his chair. "Wh—What?"

"You heard me."

Gio tensed up again slightly, then stumbled nervously over his first few words. "I... I don't believe you. My mother would have told me."

An indifferent shrug. "I suppose she didn't care enough to tell you."

"Really? She didn't care enough about her own son to—" He stopped himself to think over the stupid question leaving his mouth, then exhaled, admitting defeat on this one. "Okay, fine, I believe it. Shit."

Kade gave a smug little smile; he was obviously enjoying every moment of this. "Yes, it's a lot to take in, I know. Perhaps if your mother had been a more present and attentive figure in Giuseppe's life while he was growing up, we wouldn't be having this unfortunate conversation."

After a thoughtful pause, Gio chuckled without humor. "Yeah, well, she's not exactly known for thinking ahead."

Kade gave him a quick, assessing look. "Your mother isn't stupid. She's just a bit… detached from reality."

"Is that what they call it now?" Gio murmured under his breath, even though Kade clearly picked up on it.

"Be that as it may," Kade course-corrected again, "it's clear you and Giuseppe share certain… feelings towards your mother. Perhaps you could use that common ground to connect with him a bit, maybe even put in a good word for your mother and leverage some compassion out of him."

The very suggestion had Gio's fists clenching all over again. "And why should I risk so much to help her after what she did to me?"

"The woman gave you life."

"And then tried to take it away," he reminded sharply, his memory of Savile Island still fresh. "Do you really think I forgot how the two of you left me and my friends to die on that rooftop before it was blown to bits?"

Kade shrugged. "It was only the once."

"Go to hell," Gio bit out, sharply turning his head forward again. Through his own mirror, he saw the darker-skinned man studying him, hardly phased by the remark. The Mr. Mime had finished on him and was gingerly unlacing the towel fastened around his neck.

"That pesky memory notwithstanding, I'd still say you're in her debt, at least a little," Kade replied after the silence dragged on too long. "She left you a mansion and a Gym, didn't she?"

Gio considered his words before letting his hand rest on the bulge of the journal in his jacket pocket. "That house was my father's home long before it was hers."

"Let's not get bogged down in semantics." Kade took a second to smile pompously at his newly shaven face reflecting back at him, and nodded in approval to Mr. Mime, who then quietly went on its way. The Rocket Executive then looked toward Gio, eyes narrowed in a more severe manner. "The more time we spend bantering is more precious time frittered away. I need an answer and I need it now."

"You already have my answer," growled Gio, leaving it at that. Kade gave a small, disappointed nod, and stood up from his chair, and suddenly, he was standing very close to Gio, looking down from his height.

"This is only the beginning," the older man warned, his slender, brown fingers dancing over the top of Gio's chair. "If Giuseppe continues to steal our traffic, Team Rocket could face financial collapse. You either do this, or you and your gang double your weekly output."

Shaking his head, Gio stood his ground. "That's not happening either. We're already on thin ice. If anything, I was going to slow things down."

"That would be fiscally irresponsible."

"Again, tough luck."

Kade inhaled and exhaled deeply, visibly struggling to maintain his composure. "You know," he began again over a thin wall of patience. "You could be the one to inherit Team Rocket someday, if you play your cards right. So you really ought to do your part and—"

Gio shot out of his chair and onto his feet, startling Kade back a few paces. "I don't want to do my part," he growled, jabbing the Rocket's chest with his index finger. "I didn't want this life. I didn't choose it and I don't enjoy it. Do you hear me?"

Kade held up his palms in cowardice long enough for Gio to lower his finger, then he dusted down his suit and readjusted his tie. "I had hoped to return to your mother with good news. You're not making it easy."

"Just one more reason for her to be disappointed in me," Gio muttered, pointing Kade toward the door. The shop owner was gawking at them now, and Kade, a slave to caution and discretion just as Gio remembered, smiled politely as though nothing had happened, and whipped out his wallet. He was about to leave a wad of cash on the chair to cover both of them, but Gio blocked his path.

"I got it," he said firmly, bringing his face inches from Kade's. "And I better not see your face around here again."

Kade had been on the point of walking back toward the front of the salon, but he paused and turned. "Will you allow one last quick little morsel of wisdom from an old comrade?"

Gio scowled, his anger burning hotter than a Charizard's flame now. This chattering clown was too persistent for his own good.

"Don't throw stones when you live in a glass house," he said, and Gio flared his nostrils.

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Meaning… stop pretending you don't enjoy this," answered the Rocket Executive, flashing his canines wickedly. "Every man has a dark side they never like to admit they like. But you _do_ revel in your line of work, to some level—having that kind of power over something, commanding that kind of respect, indulging your most rebellious impulses. You and your mother have more in common than either of you care to admit. The only difference is you're ashamed. Your mother has no shame at all, and she's as free and weightless as a Spearow."

"And look where it's gotten her," Gio retorted easily. "She's about to lose everything."

Kade gave a laugh that wasn't amused, and countered, "And look where it will get _you_ once she makes sure your girlfriend and all your little friends in Pallet Town know what you do after the sun goes down." It was a clear threat, and Gio fought the impulse storm the space between them and shove the other man into the nearest wall.

Then he felt the journal poking at his side, and untensed, his mind clearing enough to realize that Kade was only trying to provoke him and expose his vulnerabilities. So instead of throwing any punches, he took a few threatening steps toward the smug Rocket, but stopped about a foot apart from him. "Stay the hell away from Delia," he warned through gritted teeth, "and stay the hell away from _me_."

Kade smiled, nodded slowly, almost seeming impressed with his restraint. "Be seeing you, cupcake," he said, and added a wink just before he turned around and went on his way.

Gio waited for the little bell to signal that the shop was his again, then returned to his chair, even though he was too steamed up now to enjoy a good shave. Mr. Mime reemerged in Gligar's place, wasting no time coating the better part of his face in a warm, soapy foam. He let his eyes fall shut as the razor descended, whisking and rolling over his stubbly jaw, sneaking under his chin. He would walk out of there looking a new man, yes.

But what did it matter how pleasant he looked on the surface when there was still so much ugliness beneath? It was all out of control now, the war raging inside himself. If he hadn't reined himself in just moments ago, he might have ended up beating Kade into a coma, right there in plain view, in a public venue, all because of a bluff of a threat. And reining himself in was becoming more and more of a losing battle these days. He needed a light to burn away the darkness, a guide. And if Delia couldn't be his salvation right now, he would have to look elsewhere before that war he carried became a plague, spreading and destroying everything in its path, good and bad alike.

 **TO BE CONTINUED . . .**

* * *

 **A/N:** I posted a poll on my profile. I'm sort of just trying to gauge the general consensus on this story so far. Written feedback is preferred, of course, so please feel free to review and let me know if there's something you like or dislike, something that doesn't make sense, something you would suggest changing, editing, comments concerning the characters or pacing, etc. This story is going to be a lot more ambitious than the last two, so any positive or constructive feedback means a great deal to me. It helps me to better recognize what my writing/storytelling strengths and weaknesses are.

 **Next Chapter:** Tucker makes a bold decision that thrusts Gio into action; Kade tries to negotiate with the crime families; Delia finally puts her foot down.


	6. Salvation

.

.

 **Short Change Hero**

 **Chapter 6: Salvation**

The Rattatas scurried out of the bushes, swarming around Tucker's feet as he dragged the heavy bag of Pokémon food out onto the patio. Smiling, he counted how many there were, then filled the bowls according to measurement. He had this routine down pretty well now; the smaller critters were always the first to eat their fill, while the larger Pokémon in the corral usually preferred to feed off the land. He liked that he knew them well enough to memorize their eating habits, their patterns. He'd grown up playing around most of them, and even now, being around them was one of the few simple joys he looked forward to waking up every morning.

He stopped pouring once the bag felt a pound lighter in his arms, setting it down on the grass before plunking himself down at the patio table. Roland sat across from him, his nose buried in a textbook. They had a paper due in a few days, and like always, his friend was on a mission to finish it ahead of schedule. Tucker wished he could channel that same focus, but he'd reached his breaking point. He couldn't sit still anymore without his knee jerking or his fingers drumming the closest solid object. He did more than enough sitting and book reading in school as it was, so why did he have to do it at home now too? If he had to flip open another course book and stare at more walls of texts, he was going to pull his own hair out.

Roland hummed thoughtfully, something apparently catching his interest. He glanced up from the book. "Did you know Macargo's body temperature is a whopping 18,000 degrees?" he laughed, slowly turning the page. "Note to self: steer clear of Macargo."

"Not like we'll ever get to see one," Tucker mumbled under his breath. He tapped his pen on the table, sighing as he tried to concentrate on his own textbook. He chewed on the pen cap, blurring and refocusing his eyes once, twice, three times, before giving up with a groan and slamming the writing utensil on the table. He was back on his feet again when the restless nerves became too much, but Roland didn't seem to notice.

"Still, you should have your dad fact check that one," the larger boy said. "Isn't he working on some, like, super secret Pokémon encyclopedia?"

Tucker couldn't help smirking a little. "Not really a secret if you keep blabbing about it, Roland."

"Oh, right." Roland set down the textbook again, lifting a brow to his friend. "Think it'll ever see the light of day?"

Tucker shrugged, absently watching the Rattatas chow down. "Who knows? He's just been sitting on piles of sketches and notes of the Pokémon he met as a kid. He says he's waiting for the right investors. Apparently it's supposed to be more than just an encyclopedia. He wants it to be a kind of gadget or something."

Roland chuckled. "I wouldn't put it past the guy who helped invent the Pokéball."

Tucker shook his head. "Even if he gets it patented, it won't do _me_ any good," he murmured, turning to his friend. The other boy saw his frown and mirrored the expression.

"He's really _that_ against you going off on your own, huh?"

Tucker nodded somberly and ground the toe of his sneaker against the grass. "Now he's even talking about transferring me to some fancy Pokémon tech school near Cerulean City so that I wouldn't even need to collect badges or anything."

"Well, at least you wouldn't be stuck in Pallet Town anymore," Roland pointed out, an upbeat note in his voice. He was trying to lift Tucker's spirits, and while Tucker appreciated it, it wasn't much for comfort. It didn't make a difference where he was if he was just going to be jailed up in _another_ academy and chained to even _more_ books and homework. The outside world would be just as unreachable there as it was now.

Huffing, Tucker turned back toward the Pokémon, but flinched once he did. Their bowls were already empty, oddly. And for whatever reason, the Rattatas hadn't scampered off like they usually did after a meal. They were just standing around, staring into their empty dishes, a look of disappointment shared between them.

"What is it, Tuck?" asked Roland.

Tucker pointed. "It's not like them to eat every last bite."

"Maybe they're still hungry."

"Yeah, maybe," Tucker murmured, crouching down. He picked up a bowl, inspected it closely. It was licked clean and spotless, but that didn't make sense; the Rattatas were all carnivorous eaters, so even when they _did_ finish a whole helping, they still almost always left a mess of crumbs clean up.

"Um… Tucker?" Roland called to him in a stiff voice. "You might wanna see this."

Tucker turned his head, looking over his shoulder. Roland was practically arched over the patio table, his eyes being pulled in by something. Tucker followed his gaze to the bag of Pokémon feed sitting in the grass and saw the faintest of movement from inside it. What in Articuno?

The bag let out a belch and tipped over, and Tucker rushed over to it. He opened the lip of the bag and peered inside, gasping. There was no feed left inside. Only a familiar skull-wearing face.

"Cubone?" Tucker choked on the name, unable to control his voice, unable to stem his laughter.

"Keww!" the Pokémon squeaked.

"How did…" The question fell off, dying on Tucker's tongue. Instead, a smile, twice as big as the first, spread over his face. He knew he wasn't crazy! He knew he'd felt Cubone on the bus with them the other day… somehow. He hadn't imagined it!

"Your Pokémon has an iron stomach," Roland remarked, standing behind them now. Tucker chuckled, shaking his head.

"He's not my—" He stopped himself, considering it, then brought his finger to his chin. "Huh. You know, he kind of _is_ , now that I think about it."

Cubone poked his head out of the bag. "Kewww?"

"Yikes!" Tucker exclaimed, scratching behind his neck. "You're seriously already hungry again?"

"Kew!" The Pokémon spun around and waddled back into the bag to feast on the leftover crumbs, leaving Tucker to weigh his options. If Cubone had followed him home just to fill his stomach, this was going to be a problem for the other Pokémon in the corral. He couldn't bring himself to turn poor Cubone away though. If he wasn't sure the little guy was all alone before, he was now.

"Plan, Tucker?" Roland asked, concerned and impatient.

Tucker bit down on his lower lip. "Working on it."

"Well you might want to work on it a little quicker before—"

"Hello, boys!" the voice of Tucker's dad swept over the patio. Tucker's feet instinctively snapped in front of the bag, Roland coming to stand right next to him, both of them blocking the view of their little secret.

"Hey, pops!" Tucker squealed.

"Hi, Professor Oak!" Roland sounded off next, maybe a little too eagerly.

Smiling pleasantly, Tucker's dad looked to the two neglected textbooks on the patio table. "How are your studies coming along?"

"Fine!" they both answered quickly and at the same time; Tucker winced slightly at how guilty it must have sounded.

His dad tilted his head. "Is everything alright?"

Tucker nodded, swallowing to clear any cracks in his voice. "Sure, pops. Why wouldn't it be?"

The keen professor shifted his weight to one side, peering around them. "Who ate all of the feed?"

When nothing came to mind, Tucker elbowed Roland while his dad wasn't looking.

"Er… I did!" Roland chirped out, clearing his throat.

The professor blinked at the boy. "You? But why?"

"Well," Roland drew out the word, before lifting his shoulders in a sheepish shrug. "It's not like I was getting any lunch offers. No offense."

The older Oak paused, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "A person eating Pokémon food?"

It sounded like the stupidest thing ever hearing it out loud, but Tucker could only hope for a miracle at this point.

"Oh!" The tension drained out of Tucker when his dad suddenly hoisted up his finger, and Tucker recognized a light bulb turning on in the elder Oak's brain. "You know, strange as that is, it gives me an idea for a haiku that I've been..."

The bag rustled behind Tucker, and he quickly coughed over the noise before his dad could notice. "Ha! Yeah, sounds awesome, pops! Why don't you go get started on it? Like, right this second?"

Chuckling, the elder Oak started to turn back toward the lab. "Very well then! Just let me know if you boys need anything!" He flinched at the door, taking a spare moment to indicate the larger boy. "Oh, and Roland? Do feel free to come inside and rummage the fridge the next time you get a craving."

Roland nodded, smiling so hard it looked like his head might pop. "Sure thing, Professor Oak!"

Once they were in the clear, they unclenched their faces and sagged forward with a sigh. Tucker then twisted around, reaching down into the bag and fishing out Cubone. He held the Pokémon snugly in one arm, managing a small grin. "If you're gonna stay here, I guess the only way to keep you quiet is to keep your stomach happy."

"Kewww!"

"Earth to Tucker!" Roland hollered, waving his arms for attention. "Am I missing something? Why not just tell your dad?"

"Because," Tucker began, thinning his mouth more seriously. "I want to prove to him I'm responsible and fully capable of training a Pokémon. And..." He glanced down at the empty sack, then at the Rattatas now resorting to sniffing the grounds for scraps. "And… well, this isn't a very good first impression. I just need a little more time, is all! In just a few days, I'll have Cubone in top form! My dad will be so impressed, he'll just have to let me go on a journey!"

Roland shook his head, laughing. "Good luck with that, buddy."

"Oh, we'll have more than luck."

Roland blinked at him. " _We_?"

Not saying anything, Tucker reached into his pocket with his free hand and fished out a small bundle of Pokédollars, bound crisply with a rubber band. He handed it to Roland.

"Isn't this your allowance?" the other boy asked, reaching for the money slowly, reluctantly. Tucker nodded.

"I need you to run to the market and buy as many biscuit sticks as you can carry back here," the blonde explained. "It's Cubone's favorite. And I'd rather him eat that junk than steal the other Pokémon's food."

The usual groan of disapproval from Roland. "Have you thought this plan through, Tuck?"

"Nope!" Tucker pressed Cubone tighter against to his chest as the Pokémon began to squirm, probably at the mention of his favorite snack. "But I'm not hearing any better suggestions!"

Roland glanced down at the wad of cash, sighed, then closed his fist around it. "This really wasn't what I had in mind when I signed up for this friendship, Tuck."

Tucker rolled his eyes. "Just go, will you? I'll owe you one," he told him. Roland said nothing and took off, panting only a few steps into his mad sprint toward the fence.

After seeing him off, Tucker started to carry Cubone further out into the corral. "Now we just gotta find someplace for you to settle down, little fella."

"Kewwww!" Cubone vocalized excitedly, swinging his club in all directions. More than once Tucker had to pull his head back to avoid getting clobbered. He didn't mind though. Sure, the Pokémon was a screwball running on glut energy, but then again, so he was _he_. They were perfect for each other, and his dad would come to see that.

Apart from the language barrier, he felt like he understood Cubone. He'd found his way to the Pokémon's heart through his stomach, but there was a deeper connection there. Cubone could have followed any person home for a nice meal, but he didn't. Only Tucker. Because there was trust between them. Even if Cubone had a funny way of showing that trust, it didn't mean any less to Tucker. He knew it was real, and he knew he could get the Pokemon to come out of his shell—or mask—over time.

* * *

"You turned him down?!"

Even though Ariana's level voice had risen to a holler, Gio didn't turn in his seat. He kept his back to his desk, his hand absently running up and down Meowth's soft head as the Pokémon purred in his lap. "My mother doesn't own me," he growled in reply. "If she thinks she can send me into the lion's den to save her own skin, she's dumber than I thought."

Ariana groaned, the stomp of her heel on the office floor punctuating her mood. "Fine. You want me to go in your place then? Because I'll go!"

Petrel, not missing a beat, broke out in laughter from somewhere else in the room. "Yes! One good look at her and Giuseppe will turn to stone!"

Irritated, Gio finally swiveled around. "No one is going anywhere, alright?"

"Think about the money!" Ariana whined in that high pitched shrill that made Gio cringe. "Think about the future! The promotions! Think about the positions we could land in Team Rocket!"

The last sentence had Gio slamming a fist down on the desk. "We are _never_ joining Team Rocket."

Smirking, Rocco, a veteran member of his gang, ran a hand over his high, freckled forehead, which was capped in a cowlick of wispy, black hair, and sniggered in reply, "Aye, course not. We'll just do their dirty work fer them."

Gio said nothing to that and just leered at him for a long moment. Rocco was unusually cynical for a man in his mid-twenties, a trait he ascribed to having lost his parents in his teenage years. He'd immigrated from Scotland a misfortunate orphan, but always held his head high above the waves, carrying himself like a carefree crusader who just couldn't be beaten down by life. He was a man of simple pleasures, money being the favorite, women being second, so he'd already had a rap sheet long before shedding the name Fergus Mcdougall and joining Team Righteous. And even for a criminal, he wasn't cocky like Petrel, or uppity like Ariana, or even sadistic like some other members of their gang; but he was shameless and forthright, and he had his own rugged charm. Not that he needed it to fit in with them. He always viewed the world with a black, sarcastic sense of humor, and a pragmatic, amoral philosophy for life that Gio was sort of envious of, especially of late.

For that reason, Gio had taken Rocco on as a spotter for Team Righteous, someone who could keep eyes and ears out for promising new recruits and send anyone who had a problem with it packing. Since Gio couldn't afford to constantly be looking over his shoulder between running a Gym and running a business, Rocco was also something of a pseudo-bodyguard, on the side. The Scotsman was a skilled fighter, after all, being a veteran of bar fights all across Kanto. He wasn't big or muscular, but he was nimble and quick on his feet, and he carried Pokémon with similar attributes. He was also tall, with hair that fell forward into his eyes, even now as he stood slouched back against the wall twiddling with his shirt cuff. He had a long, straight nose, full lips, high cheekbones, and an unshaven face. He dressed like he didn't care what anyone thought; usually the same wrinkled, mismatched outfit, complimenting his five-o'clock-shadow in a way Gio wasn't sure was good or bad.

And yet despite all of that, Rocco had somehow scored a reputation as a bit of a lady's man. Maybe women were just drawn to his happy-go-lucky charisma? Gio just couldn't work out the math, and he sure couldn't imagine someone like Delia giving Rocco the time of day, at least not without slugging him in the kisser at some point.

"Just sayin', the lass is right, Gio," Rocco went on, sounding almost exasperated as his Scottish accent bled through his words. "We be the ones scrubb'n dir'y floors while Team Rocket footers around and gits all th' muckle glory."

Ariana nodded, planting her hands on her hips like she always did when making a point. "And now because you refused Sorhagen, your mother is going to make us work twice as hard."

Gio lowered his gaze, smoothening Meowth's fur some more, then muttered, "She can try."

"Oh?" both Rocco and Ariana said at once. Nodding, Gio patted the desk and Meowth hopped up on it, allowing him to stand to his feet. He looked toward Ariana near the door, then to Rocco against the wall, and finally to Petrel, who, until this point, had been flitting in and out of the office modeling a different disguise each time. Ridiculous as it was, it was Petrel's ritual, hoping each surprise entrance would prove more convincing than the last. It was just something they all put up with to satisfy his ego as a self-proclaimed master of trickery.

Finding his focus again, Gio let go of a tense breath and straightened. "We need to cool things off, lay low for a while," he explained, curling his fingers around the edge of his desk in anticipation of the backlash to come. "We're putting too much at risk crunching so many midnight runs so close together."

Ariana just blinked at him, trying to make sense of his words. It wouldn't have made sense to any of them though. It was a stupid plan even just saying it over in his head. But if he came clean and told them he was trying to find a way to hear his father's voice again, they'd probably ship him off to the nuthouse for shock therapy. It had been Delia's advice, though, so he figured it was worth a shot. If he could regain even an inch of that moral ground he'd lost over the years, maybe there was a chance his old identity could rise from the grave just enough to put him back in touch with Clint Ketchum, and get his life back on track.

Rather than belt out a slew of curses, Ariana surprised Gio, taking a composed breath and scrubbing her hands over her face. "Would this decision, by any chance, have anything to do with that no-good, hussie inspector who came sniffing around here last week? What, did she scare you? Did she guilt trip you or something?"

Gio bit his tongue. "Look, my decision is final. Tell Proto and the others to cancel tonight's run."

"Breakin' a contract? Ballsy," laughed Rocco, pushing a lock of hair backward haphazardly like he was a model in the middle of photo shooting.

"Suicidal, more like," Ariana sniffed.

Rocco shrugged. "Man's gotta have his dignity, lassie."

She rolled her eyes. "Dignity doesn't pay the bills, last I checked."

Rocco didn't reply, just gave a low whistle between his teeth. It sounded like agreement though, and Gio sighed defeatedly.

"At some point, my mother will have to realize she's only hurting herself by working us harder," he said, finally, in a poor attempt to reassure both himself and them. "Half of Team Rocket's shipping routes run directly through Celadon and Saffron City, both of which are under Giuseppe's control. Any Pokémon we capture for her will just end up in his hands. We may as well be working for _him_ at that point."

Ariana pushed up an unimpressed red brow. "You know your mother is too proud to own up to that. If we don't do our job and meet our quotas, she'll find a way to punish you."

Gio frowned, grunting by way of answering. She was more right than he cared to admit. Kade had even threatened to expose him to Delia and all of Pallet Town if he didn't play ball. Maybe it hadn't been a bluff after all. Maybe his mother had been hiding that card up her sleeve all this time, saving it for the right time. It infuriated him that she might do such a thing, but it also rustled the teenage boy inside him still squirming to get out from underneath mom's boot. And it was precisely _because_ of nonsense games like this.

"Do we have any customers coming into the body shop this afternoon?" he murmured quietly, meeting Ariana's gaze a second later. Only then did she blow a gasket.

"Gio! I already told you I cleared your entire schedule today! You haven't forgotten, have you? You know you're expected to meet with Mayor Tyson!"

He cursed under his breath, regretting ever having agreed to that. The mayor of Viridian City had taken an interest in private investing and small businesses not long ago, an opportunity Ariana had brought to Gio's desk the moment she'd gotten wind of it. He'd almost refused, but she'd insisted it was a good tactical move for him to make some powerful, string-pulling friends in case he was ever caught and tried for his role in Team Righteous. She wasn't wrong, but he didn't like to think about that scenario or lend it credibility by acknowledging it.

Maybe he didn't need the mayor's support though. Maybe he didn't need his mother's either. Maybe there was a more honest way to bring in income, and maybe it had been right in front of him this whole time. He owned a perfectly viable and legal auto repair business, so why did it have to be just a front?

Gio looked up at Ariana sharply, catching her eyes and holding them for a bit. "Are there any challengers waiting for me upstairs?"

"I closed the Gym today, so no."

"Cancel the meeting," he said. "Open the Gym. Open the shop."

She gave him a look like he'd lost his mind, and maybe he had. "Gio! Come on! I bent over backwards to schedule that appointment!"

Petrel could only snicker to himself as he skulked out the door in another costume, "Well, it wouldn't be the first time you bent—"

After kicking the door shut behind Petrel, Ariana marched across the room, her palms settling on Gio's desk as she leaned over the space between them. "Gio, darling, just try and appreciate what I'm telling you. You're a Gym Leader. You have credentials. The freaking _mayor_ wants to meet you! This is your chance to get your name out there, charm your way into some powerful social circles! How could you pass up on it?"

"I also hear he has an expensive Camaro that needs fixing up," came Petrel's muffled voice behind the door. "We should have him bring it into the shop at no charge! It doesn't hurt to have the mayor owe you a favor!"

Gio shook his head with a scowl. "You guys aren't hearing me. I'm not looking to be some slimy, corrupt elitist. That can't be me. People… wouldn't approve."

"People, eh?" Rocco queried, pushing away from the wall with that irritating little smirk of his. "Would yer lady love happ'n tae be one of those people?"

Gio gave a guilty shrug. There wasn't much point in denying it as he imagined the look on his face said it all.

"Gio, that woman you're seeing is bad news!" Ariana scoffed, probably winning a world record for most uttered phrase at this point.

"It takes one to know one!" Petrel's voice chuckled outside the door. Ariana ignored him, however, and kept on prattling.

"Just look at how stressed out she's made you," she gushed, suddenly slipping into her flirtatious mood, her thumb stroking over Gio's knuckles. "You deserve better. Why should you care what she or anyone else thinks about what you do? What can any of them possibly have to offer you that you feel the need to cozy up to them?"

Gio frowned, pulling his hand away from Ariana's. He glared in Rocco's direction next. "Something you want to add?"

The Scot stopped fiddling with his cufflinks and crossed his arms over his chest, sighing. "Ah get paid tae watch yer back, so listen up. Ye waste time gettin' people tae like ya, yoo'll end up th' maist famous liar this side of Kanto. 'At really any better than what Ari's suggestin'?"

Gio turned his head away, wrinkling his nose. "It's not about being an honest person, it's about doing the honest thing," he continued to lie, but it wasn't his best. Anyone could see through it. He couldn't even bring _himself_ to buy it.

"Aye," said Rocco, probably just to indulge him, if only for a second. "Dae'n th' honest thing is real good an' all, but te dae th' dishonest thing is a wee bit more rewardin', don'ja think?"

"Not to mention more fun," Petrel chimed in from the hall.

"And more gratifying," added Ariana. She then made a broad, sweeping gesture with her arms. "Look around, Gio. We're all already outcasts and degenerates. We've always played by our own rules. That's what brought us together in the first place."

Gio thought about it, shame like bile in his throat. "So then why are we still following Team Rocket's orders? What's the point of being outlaws if we've got responsibilities?"

" _Ye_ tell _us_ ," Rocco retorted, enunciating the first and last word.

Gio just grimaced. He'd walked right into that one. And to openly admit that his bargain with Team Rocket was solely to protect Delia would have just been proving their point about him, so he couldn't do that. Legendaries. It wasn't fair. His life was an infuriating roller coaster. It was all sacrifice and work and orders and rage and suffering and righteous indignation and turning a blind eye and trying to justify the means to an end.

He needed to get things in order. He needed to get _himself_ in order.

* * *

Marco had never once seen the casino empty. Normally this would have been a bad thing, but today was a unique exception. With any luck, it would mark the end of the turf war with Team Rocket before it could even truly kick off. It was lucky enough Giuseppe had even agreed to this parlay and was willing to hash things out in a non-violent manner. Maybe Rue didn't have her claws too deep in him yet. Maybe the crime lord could still think for himself.

A muscle in his scarred cheek twitched when he spotted their visitor walk through the casino doors, a Rocket grunt flanking him on each side. With sunglasses crowning his shiny scalp, the Rocket Executive carefully surveyed the lounge, scanning the rows of unoccupied slot machines before finally noticing Marco standing awkwardly at the center of the spread.

"Kade Sorhagen," Marco called out in his toughest voice, approaching the group when they didn't approach him first. "Welcome to Celadon City. Don Giuseppe is expecting you.

The dark-skinned man lifted his shades higher and gave Marco a sweeping glance from foot to head. "And who might you be?"

"No one important, trust me," he replied, unashamed. "But the name's Marco. Marco Sapone."

"Aren't you a bit young to be a mobster?"

"Aren't you a bit too out of your element to be talking down to me?" Marco challenged back, quick on the draw. The other man let out a mirthful laugh behind a closed fist.

"Feisty, aren't you?"

Marco smiled, wearing the slight like a badge of honor. "Only when I have to be," he said, before motioning to the elegant, winding staircase nearby. "He's waiting for you in the VIP area."

The Rocket Executive didn't budge. "Perhaps the safer option would be for me to wait right here for him," he stated. Both his lackeys reached for their Pokéballs threateningly, ready to defend the decision.

Having expected this reaction, Marco held up his palms in front of his chest to show he wasn't interested in fighting. "You won't be harmed, alright? I can personally promise you safe conduct. Giuseppe gave me his assurances no blood would be spilled, and I can vouch for him. I'm probably one of the simplest, most honest guys you'll ever meet."

Kade's brow jumped. "Oh? And are you to be my escort, Mr. Sapone?"

Marco scratched behind his ear, struggling to find the appropriate response. "Sure, that sounds a lot better than doorman," he resolved, shrugging. The other man liked this reply, judging from his smile, and gestured for Marco to lead the way.

Marco did just that, but quietly swallowed a hard lump as he led the group up to the second floor. Giuseppe was always true to his word, but Marco wondered what the kingpin hoped to accomplish by receiving a renown conman like Sorhagen instead of Madame Boss herself. Any terms brought to the table ran the risk of being brushed aside. If that happened, there was no telling how far Giuseppe was willing to stretch his patience. And the fact that Giuseppe had refused to parlay with Team Rocket on neutral turf rubbed Marco the wrong way.

But then again, Giuseppe had also chosen to host Sorhagen right here inside the casino lounge rather than underneath the building where Rue could easily manipulate the situation. Either it was a sincere gesture of peace on Giuseppe's end, or a clever play meant to lower the enemy's guard. Marco was counting on the former; Giuseppe had promised him outright that the meeting wouldn't turn violent, after all, and Marco had to believe his friend wouldn't lie to him. They'd always been straight with each other... figuratively speaking.

They found the teenage crime lord sitting alone at a small lounge table and in the company of several Machoke bodyguards. Kade's faith in Marco's word must have been strong, because the Team Rocket executive didn't even slow his pace at the sight of the imposing Pokémon. If Giuseppe was impressed with that, he didn't let it show; his posture was utterly professional, giving nothing away. His hands were folded neatly on the table and his handsome face was its usual wall of impenetrable steel.

"Don Giuseppe," Kade greeted, flashing a smile Giuseppe didn't return. He slid casually into the chair opposite the kingpin with one leg draped over the other and an elbow leaning casually upon the table. "I've come to sort out this ugly misunderstanding between Team Rocket and the Saffron Mafia, so let's get into the thick of it, shall we?"

Giuseppe glared at his guest's disrespectful body language, something that took even Marco by surprise. It occurred to him that the Team Rocket swindler wasn't taking Giuseppe seriously. And that usually proved to be a serious mistake.

Giuseppe waited for Marco to come to stand at his side before finally addressing Kade. "Figures my mother would send you in her place," he said in that flat, authoritative tone that betrayed his age. "She never cared enough to speak to me when I was growing up. Why would she start now?"

Kade laughed a single syllable sort of sigh and rolled his eyes. "Do you really want to open with hostilities?"

"She signed my life away like I was some Pokémon bred to be traded," the mob boss retorted. "One could argue she started hostilities." His face was calm, but Marco knew better than to fall for it, not when there was that distant, wounded glimmer in his eyes. He could tell it hurt the kingpin to have to admit such a thing about his own flesh and blood.

Kade smiled then, calculating and sly. "What makes you so sure the current Team Rocket boss is even your mother? Madame Boss shows her face to no one, and Rita Ketchum is presumed dead."

Giuseppe was prepared for that. "Why would anyone else but Rita Ketchum send Rita Ketchum's closest associate to come treat with me?"

Another dismissive wave of the hand from Kade, a practiced flourish. "And what makes you think Rita Ketchum and I are even close?"

"Mos Vinci told me you were in the delivery room when I was born."

"Suddenly mobsters are criminals but not liars?" There was a definite hint of smugness in Kade's voice, and Marco couldn't help smiling a little. The man was an asshole, but he had a point.

Giuseppe scowled, his eyebrows snapping down. "I don't want excuses. I want what is mine by right. The Rocket Gang owes my family and my syndicate a debt. Until that debt is paid, you can expect to lose more of your shipments."

The flamboyant Rocket flattened his palm over his chest in mock offense. "So snippy! Can't we all just be friends?"

"I think the time for friendship has passed, more or less," Marco butted in politely, trying his own approach; Giuseppe didn't seem to mind. "The thing is… every route to every Team Rocket storehouse on the eastern side of Kanto can no longer be traveled. Eventually, you'll have nowhere left to store all of your goods since you can't move them anywhere, which means you'll have to quit Pokémon trafficking altogether, which means Team Rocket goes into ruin. Hate to say it, but it's a lose-lose situation for you. If I were you, I'd make it easier on myself and submit to Giuseppe's demands."

Kade seemed to see through Marco's tactic, and smirked. "Are you the good cop to his bad cop?"

Marco frowned, a little put off by the comment. "Look, I'm just the guy who doesn't want to see an all-out gang war rip Kanto apart. But sure, don't mind me. All I've ever done is survive one near-death experience after another. What would I know about it, right?"

"On the contrary, I fully agree with you." Kade reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a shining, silver key—pushing it across the table to Giuseppe.

The kingpin picked it up and turned it over with his fingers, staring at it with knitted eyebrows. "What is this?"

"A gift," answered Kade. "Our warehouse chain near the city border is yours now. Consider it a peace offering. Let there be no more ill will between our two factions from this point onward."

Giuseppe's stare became a glare. " _This_ is your proposal?"

"It's consolation prize, Giuseppe," Kade explained in a condescending tone Marco knew to be intentional. All the while, he was tracing circles on the table with his forefinger like a bored child. "I'm cutting you a little slice of our turf just to stop your whining. I'd say that's fair."

Giuseppe effortlessly flicked the key off the tabletop, snorting. "You think a few lousy properties is going to settle this dispute? Why would we need your permission to seize your territories when we've already cut off your best supply lines?"

Kade went still and narrowed his eyes, maybe just now realizing he was dealing with a businessman and not some naive little boy. "You wanted to negotiate. That is what I am doing."

Giuseppe shook his head without batting a lash, his voice flat again. "Unless my original terms are met, there is only one price I will accept: the Rocket Gang's full and unconditional surrender."

"You silly, silly boys." Frowning, Kade opened his palm wide and smashed it on the table. "We'll crush you like a Snorlax crushes a Spinarak! You're in over your heads if you think you can survive a war with Team Rocket!"

Marco sighed. He should have known this wasn't going to be easy.

"Are we?" Giuseppe countered when Marco failed to. "Because so far we've been winning that war."

"Perhaps, but once we retaliate—"

"Empty threats," Giuseppe cut him down effortlessly. "If my mother wanted to retaliate, she already would have by now. But she can't, can she? Your grunts aren't trained in combat like my soldiers are. We have the armor, we have the weapons. You wear lousy costumes and carry second-rate Pokémon too weak to pose any threat."

Kade said nothing, face blank but jaw tense. It was the first time this entire encounter the man showed any flaw to his otherwise impeccable facade. Marco wondered if it was too late for those sunglasses sitting on his scalp to save face.

"You think too highly of my mother, Sorhagen," Giuseppe continued on in a dangerous voice. "When she decided to cut costs, she thought she was saving the Rocket Gang, but she only made it weaker, more vulnerable. You only _felt_ powerful because there was no one to challenge you until now."

Kade, in an obvious and desperate bid to regain whatever control of the meeting he imagined once having, belted out laughing. "I'll say this only once," he said between chuckles, holding up a finger. "You're not going to squeeze a dime out of her, _or_ me!"

"So be it," Giuseppe replied softly, posture and expression unchanged. His eyes then darted to his bodyguards posted at the stairs. "Take him."

Marco felt like a Voltorb had gone off in his head hearing those two words, but before he could bring order to his thoughts and voice to his concerns, two Machokes were already yanking Kade out of his chair by his lanky arms. The Rocket grunts had no time to reach for their Pokéballs before they, too, were surrounded. It all happened too fast for Marco to process.

Kade's look of utter shock passed quickly. He stopped resisting and pinned Giuseppe with a cold glare. "I'm to be collateral now, am I?"

"Bargaining chip," Giuseppe corrected, getting up from the table. "Your freedom hinges on my mother's cooperation. Let's find out if you mean as much to her as she means to you."

Marco tugged anxiously at his own collar, waiting for an opening, any opening, to speak up. Giuseppe had shouldered past him though, charting his way around the table and coming to stand before Kade's petrified henchmen. The Machokes had confiscated their Pokéballs, leaving both goons trembling in their boots.

"I trust you two will pass along the message," Giuseppe said, switching glances between the two men. They bobbed their heads frantically, and Giuseppe motioned with two fingers toward the staircase. "Don't keep her waiting."

Just like that, the two grunts bolted down the stairs and out of the casino, more or less leaving Kade for the wolves. Marco shuffled in place, wanting to object but still not quite feeling brave enough to question Giuseppe in front of a rival and risk showing any cracks in their command structure.

Kade was having none of it, meeting Marco's gaze with a sour expression. "You swore no harm would come to me," he uttered.

"And you _won't_ be harmed," Giuseppe answered for his friend. He then looked to the Machokes. "Find our guest a comfortable room below ground."

Kade's jaw flexed before he warned quietly, "You'll regret this."

" _Someone_ will," Giuseppe muttered back, gesturing. The Machokes took the hint and began nudging their prisoner into motion, following him closely as he walked. When they vanished at the stairs, it was just him and Marco left standing in the VIP area.

"Was that the right way to go?" Marco asked finally, finding his voice, even though he felt lost for words. There were too many thoughts whirring inside his head to the pounding tune of guilt.

"I kept my word. He won't be harmed." Giuseppe moved toward the balcony rail, clasping his hands around the metal, his back to his friend. "But my mother doesn't need to know that."

"And if she still doesn't pay up?" Marco asked, closing the distance between the two of them. Still Giuseppe wouldn't face him.

"She'll pay."

"Why should she?" Marco challenged. "You said it yourself: she's a selfish, egomaniacal monster. His life won't mean anything to her."

"She _will_ pay," the other boy husked. "One way or another."

Before Marco could question what that meant, Giuseppe tore away from the rail and strode past him without a word.

* * *

Tucker shot up in bed, unsure if he had cried out in his sleep or if it had only been in his nightmare. Cold sweat poured from his forehead, his breath ragged in his lungs until a strong, comforting pair of hands steadied his shoulders. He blinked enough times until he could make out his dad's face in the darkness.

"Tucker, it's alright," the elder Oak whispered, sitting down on the bed with him. "It's me. You're safe."

He relaxed under his father's touch and soothing voice. "Oh, hey, pops," he said, trying to play it cool but each word punctuated by a sharp pant. The dream was still fresh in his mind, and his hand instinctively reached to touch where Zapdostwo's thunderbolt had jolted him awake. He'd seen a face in the jagged, forked light, just as he did every night. _Her_ face. And he could still hear the crazed laughter of the creep who'd taken her away from him.

"You saw your mother again." It wasn't even a question. This wasn't the first night his dad had found him like this.

Tucker blinked, and twisted his head, soaking in his darkened surroundings instead of saying anything. Hazy storm clouds kept the usual moonlight from trickling into his bedroom, and he instinctively pulled the blankets up toward his chest when he heard the first rumble of thunder. His dad's hand landed on his shoulder again, and he remembered he wasn't alone. He squinted up at the face hovering next to him. "What are you still doing up, pops?"

"I was going through some old logbook entries, until I heard you screaming," the other explained, frowning. Tucker felt a twinge of guilt seeing the sad expression.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," his dad said, releasing his grip and reaching for the family photograph collecting dust on the far end of the windowsill. Tucker tossed his head away; he could never bring himself to look at it, but he wished he'd mustered the courage at some point to at least stow it away somewhere where his dad couldn't wave it around in front of him. It just hurt too much when he did.

He wasn't ashamed of his mom or anything. He just felt like he couldn't look at the woman in the picture without feeling like he was letting her down. He couldn't be the hero to save her every time he relived that terrible night in his dreams, and he sure as heck couldn't be any kind of hero in real life. He'd tried, but those wheels just weren't spinning.

"What happened to your mother was… traumatic, for both of us," his father murmured, staring at the picture. "It's not the sort of thing that just goes away, I'm afraid. Maybe a change of scenery would do us some good."

Tucker lifted a brow and sat forward, his interest grabbed. His dad set down the picture and took a deep breath.

"I've decided I'm going to take that teaching job at Celadon University, at least through the year," he said. "I have some colleagues and contacts there that are very interested in my latest research."

Tucker tilted his head to one side. "Who's gonna watch over the lab and the corral until you get back?"

"Not to worry," the other laughed softly. "I'll find someone trustworthy."

Hearing that, Tucker's hopes and dreams took flight once again, and he slumped back against his pillows with a huff. "So I guess that means you're shipping me off to Pokémon Tech then."

The professor's eyebrows shot up. "You don't sound too thrilled. I thought you wanted to get out of Pallet Town."

"I do," Tucker murmured, swallowing. He ran his hand through his messy curls, and paused to scratch near his ear. "But just... not like this." It was too vague, so his dad gave him a doubtful look until he cracked. "I'm going to go stir crazy if I have to sit in another classroom, pops! There's nothing I can learn in any Pokémon school that I couldn't also learn out there in the real world!"

His dad heaved a heavy sigh. "Tucker, not this again."

"Just give me a chance, pops! Please!"

"It's just so dangerous out there. Maybe next year."

Tucker sat up sharply again. "You said that _last_ year, and the year before that!"

His dad shook his head, his voice a gentle breeze compared to his son's. "You have so much academic promise, Tucker, if you'd only apply yourself. The time for thrills and adventure has passed, I think. I just want you to have a future."

"Well _I_ just want to have a childhood!" Tucker exclaimed, slapping the mattress on either side of him for emphasis. "Come on! This is what mom would want for me! Even Gio thinks I deserve a chance to become a Pokémon Trainer!"

The professor's face scrunched up in a way Tucker didn't like. "Giovanni isn't your father. I am."

Tucker reflected his scowl. "His name is Gio, and you know it! Stop calling him Giovanni like you barely know him!"

"I _don't_ know him anymore, Tucker," sighed the elder Oak, his head turning away. "He's not the person I thought he was. He just doesn't let you see it."

"You're wrong," Tucker grumbled, petulantly crossing his arms over his chest. He wasn't about to let his friend's honor be questioned or insulted.

The professor met his son's narrowed eyes and shook his head in disappointment. "And it saddens me to see he's trying to turn you against me. You wouldn't be talking to me this way otherwise."

Tucker looked away, back toward the window as a streak of lightning flashed over the glass. "You know, you're turning into grandpa," he muttered, stunning any kind of reply out of the older Oak. "I used to think you were jealous of Gio, but now I think you're just scared. Scared that mom saw him as the better role model for me. And now you can't stand to see me step out of your shadow."

There was a tense silence strained only by the muffled rain bouncing off the window pane, and Tucker could feel his dad's betrayed stare boring into the back of his head. He pushed down any guilt he felt for saying what he said, and just watched the storm take shape outside. The lightning flashes started to take him back to his nightmares again, but maybe he needed that fuel if his dad was ever going to see the bigger picture.

"You're right," the other Oak finally uttered.

Tucker turned his head on his shoulders, just blinking at his dad. What the heck?

"I am scared," he continued, his face scrunching up in what looked like pain. "But I'm not scared _of_ Gio. I'm scared _for_ him. And _for_ you."

Tucker wanted to argue that, but he wasn't sure he knew how. His dad didn't wait around for it, and quietly rose from the bed and walked out of the room, the door shutting softly behind him.

With a bitter grunt, Tucker kicked away his sheets and shuffled up to the window on his knees. He couldn't see much through the rain-misted glass, but something had brought him to attention. Something in his gut, just like when he was on the bus. It felt like Cubone again. Only this time… it wasn't that he could sense the Pokémon. It was that he _couldn't_ sense him. That weird tingling sensation wasn't there anymore. It was suddenly gone.

Panicked, he unlatched the window and yanked it up over his head. He leaned out halfway and squinted into the storm, the rain pelting his face and soaking his pajamas. He didn't care. He waited for the next flash of lightning to illuminate the back porch, then saw it. It was only barely visible, but there was a trail of stubby footprints in the muck, starting at the corral foreground and ending near the side fence.

"Gosh dangit," he grumbled, before slamming the window shut and jumping out of bed. He didn't even bother changing, settling for just a rain jacket over his pajamas, and his sneakers. If he didn't move fast, the storm would wash away the trail.

* * *

Delia stumbled up the porch and wrestled the house key from her apron as the rain threatened to pound holes into her umbrella. She'd hoped to work straight through the storm, but no such luck. Any potential customers had been driven off by the weather, leaving her to close up the diner early and walk home empty-pocketed. Not so different from a regular day, really.

After jiggling the stubborn lock, she shouldered the door open and hurried inside. She palmed the light switch and found her mother, Judith, ambling down the stairs in her nightgown. Delia inwardly groaned; something told her she was about to get an earful.

"Close that door before you catch your cold!" the older woman scolded. Delia did so, and looked worriedly to her mother.

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

She shook her head wordlessly and swooped in to hang up Delia's wet jacket.

"Thanks," Delia huffed, folding up her umbrella. She wrang the rainwater from her hair and glanced up the staircase. "How is he?"

"Worse," her mother murmured, voice stiff and strained. "He's only woken up once for a sip of water, but nothing since. He can barely open his eyes anymore."

Delia frowned, then decided with a nod, "I'll sit with him tonight."

The other woman passed her a doubtful look. "Wouldn't you rather go out riding with Gio, having a grand old time?" she grumbled, passively aggressive enough to get under Delia's skin, not that Delia hadn't seen it coming.

"Mother, I'm not getting into this," Delia replied, a polite warning. If only she'd entered the house more quietly, she might have been spared this old song and dance.

Her mother crossed her arms, looking down her nose at Delia as if she were a child. "Not even an apology? Still?"

Delia shook her head, sighing. "I told you about my weekend plans with Gio before I left," she explained, with a great deal of effort not to put any bite into the words. "I have nothing to apologize for."

"Not an apology to _me_ ," the other woman clarified, pointing up the stairs. "An apology to your father, who is lying on his deathbed as we speak!"

Delia stared at her mother, aghast. "Don't you think I know that? Don't you think it's killing me just as much as it's killing you?"

"And yet you left anyway."

"I offered to stay with him, but he—" She stopped herself mid-sentence, knowing better than to throw her father under the bus. Instead, she turned her head away and gave a weary exhale. "Nevermind. It doesn't matter."

Her mother heaved a sigh of her own. "Delia, don't you know we need you around here?"

Delia knew what she wanted to say back—about how Gio needed her too. But it wouldn't have changed anything. Her mother was stubborn and difficult, and the years hadn't been any kinder to her. The stress of the last two years alone—juggling a restaurant, a daughter, and a husband with cancer—had hardened her tenfold. And aged her. Delia saw wrinkles on her that hadn't been there a year past. Her brown hair had faded, and showed silver at her temples. Sometimes it felt like looking at a different person.

When Delia never ended up replying, her mother took it as permission to carry on ranting. "Delia, if I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times, but that Giovanni is no good for—"

A light rapping on the door silenced her, and Delia was sort of thankful for it. She spun, reaching for the handle and pulling the door open. Samuel Oak stood on the porch, hunched underneath a soaked umbrella and wearing a look of panic.

"Sam?" Delia choked, before snapping back to focus and gesturing him inside. "Get out of the rain this instant!"

"I can't stay long, I'm afraid," said the young professor, out of breath. "I'm so sorry to disturb you ladies at this hour, but Tucker ran off and I can't find him. I've searched the lab, the corral. Have either of you seen him around?"

"Oh my," Delia said, clasping her heart with her hand at the troubling news. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't see him at the Pallet House when I was closing up or on my way home."

He squeezed his eyes closed, shaking his head roughly. "I suppose the fault is my own," he rasped. "We had an argument, you see."

Delia arched a brow. "About what, if you don't mind my asking?"

He let out a frustrated breath through his nostrils, his lower lip still caught between his teeth. "It was about Giovanni," he uttered. "And I expect that's where Tucker's headed now."

"That seems to be a common problem around here," Delia's mother remarked over her shoulder, making Delia fume.

Sam nodded in apparent agreement. "How could I have been so foolish? I should never have let Tucker enroll in a school so close to him."

"Stop it!" Delia exclaimed, silencing the both of them with a stomp of her foot. "If my boyfriend is in a rough spot right now, you two only have yourselves to blame!" It felt like the words were being ripped out of her at the sheer weight of them, but she had their attention, so she couldn't stop now. "Everyone in this town believes Gio to be dead or a monster! No one looks at him anymore and sees a human being! No one but Tucker and myself! You both should be ashamed!"

There was a tense pause Delia wasn't proud of but wasn't ashamed of either. Sam swallowed, an embarrassed pink flushing his cheeks, and he fumbled for words after a long moment's silence. "Delia, I… I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—"

Delia regained enough control to say to him, "Sam, the more you push Gio away, the more you push your own son away. If you want Tucker back, you know what you need to do."

He took a shuddering breath, then nodded in understanding. "I do," he said quietly, turning back toward the door. "Thank you, Delia."

She nodded and saw him off from the porch. She next looked to her mother, whose face was painted in shock. It was Sam she'd given the kick in the pants to, but maybe the words had been meant for her mother, really. They'd argued and bickered plenty in the past, but never had Delia truly spoken her mind so frankly and freely. Until now it had always been soft, murmured retorts and beating around the bush. Maybe it was about time to grow out of that.

Delia started to shut the door, but stopped herself, reconsidering the action. Then, she reached for her jacket on the coat hanger. "Maybe I should go help him look for—"

"No." The hard line of her mother's shoulders softened a little. She reached for her own coat, pushing Delia's hand away. "Stay with your father. I'll go help Sam."

Delia nodded, and was taken aback when her mother leaned in and pressed her lips to the crown of her head. She suddenly felt the tension in her chest lift a little, replaced by a spark of hope, relief even. She wasn't relieved that she'd avoided a scolding, however; it was more like atonement—that she could at least start to patch things up with her mother since she couldn't very well get through to Gio anymore. He might have been right in telling her to focus on family... and herself.

* * *

Gio felt a lot like Proto, glued to a lounge chair and unable to tear his eyes away from the worn pages of an old text, all the while Petrel and Rocco worked up a sweat fixing up cars. It was late, but he figured if they weren't going to be making runs for Team Rocket for a while, it was better to put them to work. On paper, the two of them were already laborers hired to help operate his body shop, so this was just sort of like… renewing alibis. The business wasn't going to run itself, after all, and if doing things by the book for a change was a stepping stone toward atonement, he was prepared to bear up and deal with the blowback.

Because how else could he ever reconnect with his father unless he tried to fit those shoes he'd stepped out of two years ago?

The question sent a pang through his chest, and he dragged his focus back to the leather-bound book in his hands. It wasn't just any book. It was the better part of his father's lifework immortalized in ink and paper, each page a new day, each entry a new revelation and experience and memory. It was Gio's last link to the forgotten Pokémon Master who was now cursed to endlessly wander the dark reaches of the broken, miserable Distortion World. It was a stone Gio had left unturned for too long. He'd made a promise. He had to keep it—not just for Clint Ketchum, but for his own sake.

Besides, if he'd found his way into that place once before, maybe he could do it again.

He impatiently thumbed through dozens of pages until he came upon the desired entry, one he hadn't glanced at since Kyden first returned the journal to him. He traced the familiar passage with an index finger, and quietly mouthed his father's report on the broken dimension.

' **It is depicted as an ultimate world where there is no solid ground where it might be expected, and mirror images of scenery are in vertical symmetry with itself. The world disobeys the normal laws of physics: time does not flow. Other gateways into this world apparently exist within the Sinnoh Region. The professor, however, has unlocked…'**

Gio glanced up slowly from the passage, squinting off into nothing as he considered its most crucial detail. "Other gateways," he murmured the words, focusing with great effort. It had read like an afterthought, but he couldn't imagine his father writing anything down that wasn't worthwhile. If there really was another entrance to the Distortion World, then there was hope for his father yet. And that meant there was hope for Gio, too.

A clap of thunder outside the garage made him jump. Rocco and Petrel barely even looked up from their work, laughter between them as they tossed lewd jokes and stories back and forth to pass the time. Rocco was hunched halfway under the hood of the Silverado he was working on, while Petrel was busy chewing on sunflower seeds and rubbing his hands on a red rag even though he had yet to even pick up a wrench. He had a knack for looking the part of a mechanic but never really putting in the effort to act it. As a skilled cyclist, he could burn motor oil just fine, but he wasn't the type to roll around in it.

"Ye ooght tae see this wonbee lass I've bin coortin' these pest few days," Rocco's larking chuckle rang through Gio's thoughts. "And more than just coortin', if ye get my meanin'." This got a laugh out of Petrel, and Rocco beamed over his shoulder to raise brows at his one-man audience. "An' ye? Who might ye be doggin' with?"

Petrel grinned mischievously around the seeds in his mouth, chewing on them some more before spitting them out and reaching in his pocket. "Sorry. I don't kiss and tell." He lit up a cigarette and took a drag, letting it go as he turned his head toward Gio. "What about you, bossman? Is Delia a Carvanha under the sheets?"

"Busy here," Gio grumbled, dropping his gaze to the journal again. "And don't talk about her like that."

"Sheesh, touchy," Rocco chortled from Gio's periphery. He pulled his head out of the engine and made a motion with his hand. "Hand me that there wrench, will ye?"

Gio glanced at the toolbox sitting a few feet away and realized the question was meant for him. "You can reach it," he muttered.

"Oh, aye, sorry," the Scot said, sarcasm dripping off his words. "Wouldn't want tae gie a smudge oan yer fancy leaither jacket."

Gio grimaced into the diary, not bothering to hide the change in expression. Another howl of laughter from Petrel followed soon after.

"Like yer so much belter than him, eh?" Rocco accused the other man in passing as he retrieved the wrench himself. "Standin' aroond like a bawheid Sudowoodo?"

Petrel blew out some smoke, dropping the cigarette and putting it out with the toe of his boot. "Oh? I don't even need a disguise to pass off for a Sudowoodo? That's a compliment, my friend."

Gio shook his head, and sighed. "What am I paying you two for?" he asked, with a hint of mockery, tempered only with the nagging reminder that these knot-heads were his friends.

"Good question," replied Petrel, not picking up on the implied condescension. "If I'm going to be awake at this hour and getting paid for it, I'd rather be out riding than fixing up broken cars."

Gio lifted a brow to him. "In this weather? Really?"

"Gettin' pished then," Rocco tossed out as an alternative, stifling a yawn behind his hand. Gio was pretty sure that was slang for getting wasted at a bar.

"Honest wages for honest work," Gio declined rigidly. He imagined if he kept on saying it enough times, he would eventually come to believe in it.

Petrel didn't look impressed. "Gio, buddy, I hope this strange phase you're going through passes quickly. I say this as a concerned friend, of course."

With a shake of his head, Gio snapped the journal shut. Petrel must have seen that as a need for space, and wisely went back to helping Rocco, climbing into the defective car and getting behind the wheel. Leaving them to their work, Gio slumped forward, resting his forehead against the top of the journal and breathing deeply. He hoped this was all worth it. He hoped cleaning up his act just a little would send him on the right path, bring him closer to his father and further away from his mother.

And further away from his own demons, in the long run. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it all caged up. He needed a gatekeeper. If that couldn't be Delia, it had to be Clint. It just had to be his father's voice to silence the stranger's voice. Who else could possibly guide him? See him through the fog? Help him overcome that dark side Kade had spoken of, prickling and prodding to be fed with each passing day?

"There, should be weel guid now!" Rocco yelled from beneath the hood of the Silverado, bringing Gio to focus. "Gaun, Petrel, gie it a go!"

Petrel, from his spot in the driver's seat, gave a mumbled response Gio couldn't quite make out. He turned the key in the ignition, only for the car to stutter out a discouraging 'clickclickclick' in response. Petrel exhaled in frustration as he dropped his forehead to the steering wheel.

"Battery's probably dead," Gio ventured from where he was sitting. "Could be the alternator."

Rocco came up for breath. "Coods be th' alternator, he says," he mumbled mockingly, shaking his head and earning a small, amused smirk from Gio. Rocco then snatched the Pokéball hanging from his belt and set it loose. "Go'an now, Joltik. Gei doon in there an' gei it a stoor."

It took half a minute for Gio to even spot where the nail-sized arachnid had spawned. Only after he squinted did he see the tiny Pokémon drop down into the engine. He'd gotten headaches in the past trying to keep track of the little spark plug, and Rocco almost never hesitated to exploit it during the occasional friendly matches between them. It was like battling thin air half the time.

After a minute of waiting, a flurry of electrical sparks was spat up from beneath the hood, followed by a promising metallic clack of a noise. Rocco signaled Petrel to turn the key again, and this time, the engine roared to life on the first startup.

"Ha! There ye go!" Rocco wiped the oil grease from his forehead and shut the hood with a proud, triumphant slam. Gio rose to his feet, feeling a little proud himself, almost like a parent. Joltik emerged unharmed from above one of the front tires, of all places, and snapped safely to Rocco's sleeve on a spindle of web.

"Foreign Pokémon have all the perks," Petrel pouted behind the wheel, kicking open his door. He sauntered over to Gio and Rocco, coming to stand between them as they admired their repair job. It was a sign, as far as Gio could tell, that they could make it in the real world as productive members of society. Maybe they didn't need to turn to crime for a taste of exhilaration and belonging. Maybe an honest living could be just as stimulating as a dishonest one.

Then, as he started to say it back to himself in his head, it sounded more and more like desperation, and he flopped back into his lounge chair with a huff of defeat. Who was he kidding? Ariana was right. The straight-and-narrow life just wasn't as rewarding; the pay was smaller, the thrills were fewer. They would be giving up so much turning their back on it all. Team Righteous kept their pockets full and kept the Rocket Gang from taking over their territory. It was a good thing they had going; it just wasn't good in a _moral_ sense. He'd learned to look past that detail for the most part, firm in his conviction that the ends justified the means. That they were vigilantes more than criminals, the lesser of two evils, breaking the law for a good reason.

As much as he still wanted to believe that, it was getting harder, especially whenever he stopped to take a good, hard look at himself. He was changing. He was becoming a different man. Even if what he was doing was for the greater good, it was twisting him into someone Delia wouldn't be able to recognize before long. She'd told him he still had a pure heart, but he knew on some level that wasn't true. He'd only ever let her see what she wanted to see, and she was starting to catch on to that deception now. He couldn't pull the wool over her eyes while she was constantly trying to crack him open like a pinata and let the secrets spill out. Everything was falling apart around him. In running away from the Ketchum name and reinventing his identity, he'd only created a wall between himself and those he cared about. He'd killed the best parts of himself in trying to kill his old life. And the only part that stuck around was his damn darkness, filling all of the spaces once occupied by Giovanni Ketchum, molding from it a monster against his will. And even now he still couldn't commit to any long-term decision and see it through. No matter what he did from this point onward, there would be repercussions. He needed to find some kind of balance, and of course, the one person who could help him do that was literally worlds apart.

Gio let his gaze drift to his lap, immediately loosening his grip on the journal when he saw he'd damaged some of the binding. He swallowed decisively. It wouldn't be enough just to hear his father's voice again. He would have to set out to find the man himself and bring him back to the dimension he belonged. Clint was the hero everyone deserved, not _him_.

"Phone's for you," Ariana's voice rang out. He looked over his shoulder as she came strutting into the garage with the cordless phone, holding it out toward him. Meowth emerged from the Gym behind her.

"This late?" Gio asked warily. "Who is it?"

"That preppy professor from Pallet," she sighed nonchalantly, the words immediately yanking Gio out of his chair and pivoting him to attention. "Should I tell him to buzz off?"

"No. Give it here." Gio took the phone, covering the bottom half with his hand as he turned to Rocco and Petrel. "Take five, guys."

The two nodded, high-fived, and walked off to get some beers from the cooler. Gio didn't waste the precious privacy, and anxiously pressed the phone to his face, almost poking out his eye with the antenna in his rush. He couldn't figure out why he was on edge, but damn it, he was. For Sam to call him out of the blue was like catching lightning in a bottle.

"Hello?" Gio uttered into the phone, rubbing at his throat.

The professor sounded like he was in the middle of running a marathon on the other end of the line. "Hello, Gio? It's Samuel!"

"Oh, uh, yeah," Gio deadpanned, not sure what to say at first. "It's… good to hear from you, Sammy."

"I tried calling your house, but there was no answer," the other man explained. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"No, of course not," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly. "What, uh… what can I do for you?"

"Tucker ran away from home!" exclaimed Sammy, and Gio suddenly felt his muscles tense, remembering the violent storm pounding against the walls of the Gym. "The neighbors and I have searched all over Pallet Town and the nearby routes, but no one can find him!"

Gio narrowed his eyes. "Well, he's not with me."

"Legendaries!" cursed the other man. "He may have wandered off into the Viridian Forest! Doesn't he know how dangerous it is to travel those woods at this hour? And with no Pokémon to protect him?"

Gio paused. He took a deep, even breath before tightening his grip on the phone. "I'll find him," he said.

"You… you will?" asked Sam, a hopeful rise in his voice. Gio had never felt so relieved to hear it.

"You can trust me, Sam," he assured his old friend, evening out his voice to resemble the heroic Pokémon Trainer he'd once been. "I promise I'll bring him home safe."

A pause.

"Thank you, Gio." It came out on an exhausted breath, as if something very heavy had been lifted from his shoulders. And Gio shared the feeling. He'd won back the trust of someone he thought had hated him, after all. This was unprecedented.

After hanging up the phone, Gio took a moment to brace himself and focus his thoughts before walking to the back of the shop where the motorcycles were lined up and parked. He signaled Meowth. "Come on, buddy. We're going for a ride."

"Meeerow!" the Pokémon vocalized, stretching its limber limbs and leaping up on Gio's shoulder. It felt odd having the Pokémon clinging to his arm again, but nostalgic. This wasn't a Gym Battle they were gearing up for, after all. It was an actual mission with actual urgency, something they hadn't shared together since the old days.

"Gio?" Ariana squealed when he handed her back the phone, her tone floored. He ignored her, gesturing to Rocco and Petrel instead.

"Suit up and get to your bikes," he said to them. "Now."

Rocco tossed his grease-stained rag over his shoulder and rubbed his temples with a heavy sigh. "Bit late fer that, int it no?"

Gio pulled down the tarp covering Diamond Dust with a single yank and leveled a glare at his lazy friends. "You wanted to go riding, remember? Well let's do this."

"Nae, ah wanted tae get pished," Rocco corrected. "But ef yer askin' me tae go off oan some rescue mission, it better be worth a braw poon. Payin' me tae watch _yer_ back is one thing. Payin' me tae watch some laddie's back sounds tay much like babysittin'."

Gio's fists clenched at his sides. "He's a kid," he bit out sharply. "We can't just leave him to fend for himself, not in this storm! We have to go help him!"

Petrel groaned. "Why, exactly?"

"Because it's what's right."

"Crivens, nae this mince again," Rocco sighed. "Yer tryin' a wee bit tay hard now."

"I'm not _trying_ anything," Gio snarled back, holding up a gloved finger. "This isn't like what I was talking about earlier. I'm not putting on an act, I'm not trying to win hearts or get in good standing. I'm doing it because this kid is important to me. And I'm asking you, as a friend, to help me out."

Rocco shrugged. "Aye, ahm yer friend. Don' mean I come cheap though."

Giving up hope on Rocco, Gio slid his gaze to Petrel next. "What about you?"

A lump rose up the back of the prankster's throat. "It _is_ getting pretty late, Gio," he croaked, coyly scratching at his arm. "I mean, I'm sure the kid will be fine. A little rain never hurt anybody."

Gio shook his head, words failing him. Some friends they were. Rather than waste time begging, he shoved his helmet on. "Guess it's just you and me," he muttered to Meowth, his only loyal friend at the moment. He swung a leg over Diamond Dust and settled himself on the seat, flexing his fingers around the handlebars and bending over them as he fired up the engine.

Ariana reluctantly hit the switch on the wall, opening up the garage doors for him. As he pulled away, he didn't even make eye contact with Rocco or Petrel. He stomped on the gas, Meowth clinging to him tightly as they sped out of the shop and into the downpour.

* * *

Rita looked up from steepled fingers as Elite Agent Zephyr strode into her office, coming to stand in the dim lighting with a military salute. He was an older man, balding and thin; since the bulk of Team Rocket's demographic leaned toward the younger side, he stood out like a sore thumb. Even so, he was one of the few dependable ones, especially now in light of her most recent intel.

"Is it true, Zephyr?" she asked over an obnoxious lump in her throat, furrowing a brow. "Do they have Kade?"

"It would appear so, Madame Boss." His thick, blue eyebrows were contorted in a frown, his mouth a slash of fury across his face. Always so serious, yet so committed, and Rita liked that. Like Miyamoto, he was an absolute posterboy for Team Rocket, which was more than could be said for the other lowly fodder. She'd given him his rank after he'd wrangled an Arcanine, a Snorlax, and a Kangaskhan for her all in a single day's fieldwork. She'd known right then he was leader material, promoting him without a second thought.

And now that she was down an elite agent and apparently an admin as well, Zephyr was really the only powerhouse left holding the command structure together for her. She had to keep him close. _Really_ close. Giuseppe meant business, and that meant _bad_ business for her. Her trafficking operations were on the fritz. Her allies were slipping and scattering to the wind. Each new blow to her enterprise was weakening her authority, shrinking her power. And everyone would come to see it. How soon before all of Team Rocket abandoned ship and joined up with the Saffron Mafia?

She met Zephyr's intense blue eyes, finding comfort in his presence and knowing he would never desert her, not even for a price. So dutiful. So loyal. Just like her dear friend Kade, in a way. _Kade_. Oh Kade. She shuddered at the ugly thought of her best friend held up in enemy territory, probably strapped to a chair in some dingy cell, bruised and battered. She couldn't bring herself to picture whatever horrendous torture Giuseppe still had yet to inflict upon him, all just to get back at her.

She drew in a steadying breath, held it for a moment before she spoke again. "There's nothing we can do to retaliate?"

"Doubtful," Zephyr replied solemnly. "Even if we mobilized our choppers and strongest Flying-Type Pokémon to attempt an aerial strike on the Celadon Casino, we risk harming Sorhagen, so that's off the table now as well."

She bit down gently on her bottom lip. "Has there been any word from Miyamoto?" Her face fell as she asked the question, if only because she dreaded the answer.

Zephyr shook his head. "Not since her arrival in Guyana, ma'am. Every attempt to make contact with her has failed. She must be out of range."

Rita stiffened. This wasn't looking good. Kade captured. Miyamoto missing. And it was all her fault. She may as well have sent them both to their deaths. Because she'd been greedy, selfish. She wouldn't dare confess to it out loud, of course, but it was the truth and she couldn't ignore it while it was practically staring her in the face. Who would she take helicopter joy rides with now? Who would she reminisce with about the idiots she hated in college? Who would she turn to when she tripped on her tongue and needed correcting? It never really hit her until now just how much she leaned on them both. She'd taken them for granted. She'd failed them, and maybe all of Team Rocket now, too.

"What are your orders, ma'am?" asked Zephyr in his deep, low growl of a voice.

Rita blinked, unsure how to answer. She struggled to find the ideal thing to say, the situation so foreign she didn't know how to proceed, let alone which would be the best way. Everyone beneath her would be looking to her now for leadership, yet without Kade or Miyamoto, it was like there was no wind beneath her sails. Those two had been the backbone of her success. And more than that, her dearest friends. Her only _real_ friends. How could she possibly navigate this disaster without their guidance?

For the first time in a long time… she felt scared. Alone. Desperate.

A buzzing sound at her desk snapped her out of her wallowing. She scraped together the will to reach out and press the button beneath the blinking light.

"Yes?" she sighed out.

"Madame Boss, there's an incoming call from the Sinnoh Region," came the voice of one of her underlings. "We can't trace it to a specific location though. It's scrambled. Could be the storm outside affecting our equipment."

She exchanged wary glances with Zephyr before answering. "How did they bypass the encryption?"

"They didn't," said the grunt. "They simply used the Rocket Gang password required to contact headquarters."

Zephyr snapped closer to her desk, looking scandalized by the implication. "Impossible. We don't have any units stationed in Sinnoh."

There was a shrug in the grunt's voice. "Should I let it go?"

Rita tapped her chin a few times. "No," she decided softly after a moment. "Open a channel and patch them through. Make sure the voice vocoder is on."

"Are you sure you want to risk it, ma'am?" Zephyr asked, light concern coating his tone. She shrugged and heaved a sigh.

"We're already doomed as it as," she reminded him. "What have we got to lose?"

He nodded reluctantly and dimmed the lights with a double clap of his hands. Rita plucked up the phone off her desk, swiveling in her chair. An enormous screen opened up on the wall behind her and a shadowed face holding a phone of his own to his ear was suddenly towering over her and Zephyr.

"Madame Boss of Team Rocket, I presume," the silhouette greeted, his voice intentionally distorted like hers. Whoever she was dealing with had just as much to hide as her, apparently.

"It was risky to call me on this line," she said coldly, not wasting precious time on idle chit-chat.

"Risky, but well worth your while."

She frowned, drumming her nails impatiently on the armrest. "Cut to the chase. Who are you?"

There was a smile in the stranger's voice. "I am Team Rocket's salvation."

 **TO BE CONTINUED . . .**

* * *

 **A/N:** I meant to have this chapter out sooner, but work has gotten busier these past couple weeks, and most of my free time has been spent playing Super Smash Bros. Ultimate. Anyway, I hope everyone had a good holiday!

 **Next Chapter:** As Gio tries to mend fences and right wrongs, a confrontation with his mother will force him to make a huge decision for both himself and those he's vowed to protect.

 **New Characters:**

 **Rocco:** Born Fergus Macdougall, Rocco is undoubtedly the most cynical member of Team Righteous. He is an orphaned immigrant and former street thug who joined Gio's gang shortly after the fall of the Rocket Empire. He is totally unashamed of how others view him, given his bleak yet pragmatic outlook on life. He enjoys money and the simple pleasures it can buy him, and approaches more serious subjects with sardonic wit. As he has no fear of death or danger, Gio usually gives him more risky jobs, such as recruiting new members or spying on Team Rocket.

 **Zephyr:** An Elite Agent for Team Rocket who, like Miyamoto, takes his orders directly from Madame Boss. Though quiet and mysterious, he is fiercely loyal and will stop at nothing to bring glory to Team Rocket.


	7. Owner of a Lonely Heart

.

.

 **Short Change Hero**

 **Chapter 7: Owner of a Lonely Heart**

Brambles smacked Tucker's face as he pressed deeper into the dense groves of the Viridian Forest, twigs snapping beneath his feet, bare limbs of towering pines and oaks casting spidery shadows over him in the flashing lightning. Rain fell in globs through the gaps in the treetops and dappled the ground, softening it into a spongy, brown slush that slurped at his sneakers. He could feel cold mud seeping through them, weighing down his every step. It was like Mother Nature herself was pulling out all the stops just to keep him and Cubone apart.

He had only a flashlight to head his path, lighting all the darkest nooks and crannies he pointed it at as he trudged aimlessly, possibly in circles. He spotted a fork-shaped root sticking out of the ground that he swore he passed already. Besides that tingly feeling telling him Cubone was close, he had no sense of direction. He'd wandered off the main footpath some time ago to widen his search and cover more ground, but he was starting to regret that now. It wasn't all his fault, though. He'd more or less stumbled into the Viridian Forest on accident after Cubone's trail went cold at the Route 1 woods. He'd kept hunting for footprints from there and somehow ended up overshooting Viridian City entirely until the trees blotted out the sky. It was around that time he realized he'd been claimed by the infamous wilderness all Kantonian Trainers feared to travel after dark.

If only he had a Pokémon with him. If only he had Cubone with him, then maybe…

"Oh, right," he murmured to himself, remembering why he was out here in the first place. Not that there was any end in sight anyway. His aching feet had carried him a mile or so, yet the woods constantly loomed before him in one tall and wide silhouette, looking every bit as menacing as his dad often described when recalling his own travels.

His dad.

There was a moment where Tucker wanted him there with him. Actually, it was longer than a moment. He almost never scared easily, but now the claps of thunder seemed to sneak up on him whenever he was sure the storm was moving away, making him spin around gasping every time. There was also those distant, rustling noises in the trees or the bushes that may or may not have been the wind, and the uncertainty set his teeth on edge. He felt like there were eyes on him, ones he couldn't see no matter how many times he twisted and turned and squinted into the darkness.

Then he heard a tree branch snap somewhere in front of him and stopped cold in his tracks. Quickly, he moved the glow of his flashlight over the forest floor ahead. A wide clearing blossomed to life beneath his sweeping beam. And standing in that clearing...

Tucker nearly had to pull his jaw off the ground. There, standing in front of him, was Cubone, unharmed and without a care in the world. The little guy was facing away from him, head turning left and right, as if debating which way to go.

"There you are!" Tucker cried out, stumbling forward into the clearing. Cubone spun, rearing its club defensively at first, then lowering it upon recognizing the human. The Pokémon did take a few cautious steps back, however; Tucker saw this and stopped at a respectable distance, slowly dropping down on one knee. "What are you doing all the way out here, little fella? This storm is only gonna get worse!"

"Kew," the Pokémon grumbled, kicking at a puddle. He seemed oblivious to the weather, though his mask was probably keeping his face nice and dry.

Smiling, Tucker offered his hand. "Come on, let's get you home, alright?"

Without warning or explanation, Cubone whirled, turning his back to Tucker once again. Tucker winced. It was dawning on him that maybe the Pokémon wasn't lost. Maybe he didn't want to go back to Pallet Town at all.

"Cubone," he called softly to the Pokémon, coming to stand. When Cubone didn't react, Tucker frowned and threw up his arms. "Look, I'm not leaving you out here by yourself! If something happened to you, I could never forgive myself!"

Either not listening or not understanding, Cubone slung his club over his shoulder and began to stomp off, leaving behind those same stubbly footprints Tucker remembered seeing in the corral. He kept at the Pokémon's heels, however, not giving up so easily.

"There's nothing for you back in Viridian City!" he tried to reason, even if it fell on deaf ears. The rain and cold cut through him like ice daggers now, his raincoat doing little to fend off either. He knew he had to do something and do it fast, for his and Cubone's own good. So he did the first thing that popped into his head.

He grabbed Cubone's club.

"Kew!" Cubone latched onto his property with reflexes that caught the young Oak off guard. Letting his flashlight fall to the mud, Tucker gripped the club with both hands, going toe to toe with the Pokémon in a heated tug-of-war. The little guy was stronger than he looked, that was for sure.

"Cubone, come on!" Tucker pleaded through gritted teeth, not letting go. "I'm only... trying to—"

The club slipped from both their grasps, flying over their heads and landing about a yard away, right beneath a fat, old fig tree with buttress roots and an even bigger canopy. Probably one of the biggest he'd ever seen.

Tucker planted his foot to step but held it anchored there when he saw something dangling from the branches. Upon squinting, he realized the tree was a nest. Several Kakunas sat suspended from the treetops on strings of silk, gently swaying in the wind but otherwise sleeping soundly under the dry refuge of the umbrella-like canopy.

"Of course," he groaned. He then turned to Cubone, holding up a finger to his own lips and bringing his voice down to a whisper. "Shhh… we can't risk—"

Cubone didn't listen, of course, and started toward the tree to retrieve his property. Tucker quickly sidestepped in front of the Pokémon, blocking his path.

"No, wait!" he hissed. "You looking to end up with a whopping Beedrill sting? Because _I'm_ not!" He glanced over his shoulder, biting his bottom lip as he weighed his options. "I know how to be quiet, so _I'll_ be the one to get it."

"Kew!" the Pokémon protested.

Tucker held up his palms. "I'm not gonna steal it, I promise! I'm just gonna—"

"Kew!"

"Okay, okay!" Tucker caved, making frantic gestures. "Hush! We'll both go! But _quietly_ , okay?"

Cubone nodded, and Tucker slowly set the pace as they tiptoed side by side into the hive's territory, stopping only occasionally whenever the thunder banged overhead, before pressing onward. The cold was harsh, and Tucker fought to keep his teeth from chattering, knowing even the slightest sound could endanger them. His dad had taught him that wild Kakunas were light sleepers, and when woken up, they often hatched prematurely as a sort of defense mechanism.

Then again, if this storm hadn't disturbed them, he wasn't sure what would.

Tucker clicked off his obnoxiously bright flashlight and ducked his head down as he and Cubone moved beneath the tree, careful not to accidentally bump into any of the low-suspending Kakunas. He noticed that some of them would bob up and down on their threads, even while dormant, which meant a Kakuna would all of a sudden appear where one hadn't a second before. It was like trying to navigate a constantly shifting minefield. One wrong step and they were toast.

When they came upon the bone club sitting near the base of the fig, they squatted down on either side of the object in perfect sync. Tucker reached his hand out slowly. "At the same time," he whispered, nodding to Cubone. "On three, we gently lift it and carry it away together. And then we talk this through, alright?"

Cubone nodded, reaching out his own tiny arm.

"One," Tucker began counting. "Two."

Before he could utter the final number, Cubone yanked the club away like the little sneak he was. Tucker immediately shot to his feet.

"You cheater!" he hollered, not thinking. Upon remembering his surroundings, he quickly covered his mouth as if to suck the words back in.

Amazingly, the Kakunas didn't stir.

Tucker's next breath left him in a long, winded sigh. "That was a close one," he whispered, lowering his hand.

BOOM!

He'd blinked the moment he heard the lightning bolt strike, then found himself struggling for balance the next as the tree suddenly burst into flames and began to descend on them. Gut instinct took over and he grabbed Cubone the first chance he got, diving headfirst out from beneath the toppling trunk before it could crush them flat.

When he came to, he rolled onto his back, still hugging Cubone close against his chest. He stayed flat as he was in the muck and mud, taking a moment to catch his breath before sitting up sharply. He and Cubone watched silently as the tree was swallowed by cinders, spitting up ash and soot that just as quickly dissolved in the rainfall.

Tucker twirled his arm like a windmill to shake out the soreness there and gently set Cubone down beside him, giving the Pokémon a quick inspection. "You alright, little fella?" he huffed.

The Pokémon raised his bone club, pointing it forward. "Kew?"

Tucker glanced toward the dying inferno, nodding. "Too bad about the Kakunas, yeah."

"Kew!" yelped the Pokémon, frantically wagging his club in the same direction, "Kew! Kew!"

Sighing, Tucker turned his head once more, unsure at first what he was supposed to be looking at.

Then he heard it. The dreaded buzzing.

Suddenly, dozens of winged silhouettes slowly rose out of the embers and smoke, all of them staring down Tucker and Cubone.

"Woah!" Tucker exclaimed absently. He'd never seen a Beedrill up close, let alone an entire swarm. It was only after he noticed their enormous stingers pointed at them did the giddy smile fall from his face. "Wait... this is bad."

Cubone climbed back into Tucker's lap, frightened and trembling. Tucker couldn't say he wasn't a little afraid himself, but he wrapped his arms tightly around the Pokémon anyway, pressing him close and shielding him from whatever might come next. He was prepared to take one for the team. Heck, he was ready to take them all on! Because that's what he and Cubone were. A team. A Pokémon and a Trainer. Partners.

And then the Beedrills surged toward them.

Tucker squeezed his eyes shut, arching forward and folding his whole body over Cubone's. As the buzzing drew closer, he felt his heart pounding against his bones until his ears only registered the sound of his own pulse.

Then another sound sliced through.

Engines. He'd heard those engines before. Roaring and thumping.

"Meowth, use Thunderbolt!"

Cracking one eye open, he watched as a blast of lightning came out of nowhere and took out the swarm leader.

Tucker whipped his head left to place the source of the last-minute save, his jaw nearly dropping. Giovanni and Meowth came belting out of the forest on Diamond Dust, sliding in right between him and the Beedrill swarm. Tucker coughed on exhaust fumes but quickly swatted it away, smiling so hard he didn't realize he was until his cheekbones hurt.

"Meowth, use Pay Day!" hollered Gio, sounding like a real, experienced Pokémon Trainer. Meowth leaped off the motorbike and into the air, fending off the swarm with a buffet of small, swiveling discs of energy.

Watching in awe, Tucker felt like he had front a row seat to a magic show, and Gio was the magician. He'd seen the older boy host plenty of Gym Battles, but he rarely ever got to watch him hold his own in the heat of real danger. In a way, he was getting a firsthand glimpse into those perilous adventures he'd missed out on all those years ago!

The Beedrills fell back, taking a moment to regroup before attempting another charge. Meowth stood ready and unflinching, a true Pokémon battling veteran if ever Tucker saw one.

"Why is it always Beedrill?" Gio grumbled under his breath, getting a small chuckle out of Tucker. "Alright, Meowth! Use Thunderbolt again! Draw your power from the storm!"

"Meeerow!" the feline stretched its claws high above its head and jumped several feet, harnessing the force of several erratic thunderbolts from the storm clouds before effortlessly unleashing the combined voltage upon the swarm. One by one, the Beedrills were zapped out of the sky, dropping crisped and unconscious to the forest floor.

"Awesome!" Tucker spewed out in a breath.

Despite their losses, the swarm turned violent and angry, and began to divebomb them once more, this time without any coordination or formation. This made it harder for Meowth to land any clean hits, and before Tucker knew it, the Beedrills were buzzing in their personal space again. Tucker hugged Cubone tighter, narrowly ducking and weaving the dreaded stingers trying to poke him.

"I can't take them all!" Gio called to Tucker, twisting around on his heel. "What are the chances that Cubone of yours can fight?"

Tucker looked down at his quivering Pokémon companion, then back up at Gio. "Not good," he panted.

There was a look of disappointment from Gio that didn't sit well with Tucker, but it passed quickly when the older boy reached into his jacket and yanked out a Pokéball. He extended it toward Tucker, who could only gawk at the mechanism, floored.

"What's this?" he choked out.

"Your first lesson in Pokémon battling!" Gio exclaimed, rattling the device impatiently. "You really want to be a Pokémon Trainer? Well, time for some hands-on experience!"

Tucker pulled his smile back to a more respectable look and took in a deep breath. As his free hand came up to grasp the Pokéball, a vicious crack of thunder made him flinch and throw his head up. A jagged streak of blue sundered the storm clouds in two, and for a flickering instant, he thought he saw Zapdostwo in that light. Suddenly he was thrown back into the throes of that terrible nightmare, memories of that horrible day rushing into him like a flood until his vision swam, blackening at the edges.

* * *

"Tucker, what are you—" Gio didn't get the whole sentence out before Tucker collapsed in front of him, landing into the mud with a squish. "Woah, hey!" He rushed to the unconscious boy, dropping down next to him. He shook him by the shoulders, trying desperately to jostle him awake. "Tucker! Tucker, wake up! Can you hear me?"

Cubone rolled out of Tucker's limp arms, disoriented as it came to its feet. It gathered its bearings and peaked up at Gio from beneath its skeletal mask "Kew?"

"Help me!" he hollered at the Pokémon, before glancing back over his shoulder. "Meowth, give us cover!"

"Meeerow!"

When Tucker wouldn't stir, Gio wrapped his arms around the boy's waist like protective iron. He dragged him toward Diamond Dust and out of harm's way, resting him against the motorcycle's frame. Any Beedrill that tried to get close were swatted down by Meowth's Thunderbolt, yet Gio could tell his feline companion was tiring out as each counterattack became further and further apart.

The moment Meowth paused for breath was all the opening the swarm needed to overwhelm the scratch cat Pokémon. Echoing Tucker, Meowth collapsed under the pressure, and suddenly Gio and Tucker were sitting ducks. Before Gio could reach for another Pokéball, a Beedrill headbutted into his flank. Slamming into the wet ground, he let out a cough as air left his lungs in a whoosh. Damn it. He was sure to feel that in the morning, assuming he made it to the morning.

Sitting up abruptly, he shook the mud out of his hair. He shuffled back on his hands until his spine pressed up against Diamond Dust and he was shoulder to shoulder with Tucker. He kicked away a Beedrill buzzing too close, then another. He cursed himself under his breath, wondering if whether he was cut out for this hero stuff anymore, or if he was simply out of practice. As he scanned around for the Pokéball that had been dropped earlier, he noticed Cubone retreating into some bushes. He wanted to be furious, but it was hardly a loss. He couldn't respect any Pokémon unwilling to stand by its Trainer, let alone fight for them.

The downpour had puttered off to a drizzle and the thunder moved west, yet the swarm only grew, any Beedrill that had been too shy to battle in the storm before now reinforcing their numbers. Gio stared down the buzzing army, then threw a glance up through the weeping canopies, toward the sky; dawn was upon them, and sunrise would find them either dead or close to it unless he pulled off a miracle. The last time he'd been cornered by a swarm this large, he'd had Sam and Delia with him, and they'd all been saved by the timely arrival of an Oddish. The chances of that happening again weren't looking promising though.

As the swarm assembled into a new attack formation, Gio used the small window to chance reaching behind his belt. He had Scyther's Pokéball halfway unclasped when two Beedrill suddenly sprung up on either side of him, forcing him to belay the action and shield Tucker's body with his own, like a reflex.

He never felt their dreaded stingers run through him though. What he felt instead were vibrations, in the ground, then in the air, the purr of rutting engines that weren't his own. He lifted his head as a thick cloud of purple descended over the clearing, sending the swarm into a frenzy. A Koffing surfaced from the smog, one he immediately recognized as Petrel's.

"I'll be damned," he muttered over a grin, bringing an arm up to cover his mouth and nose. Not two seconds later arrived Petrel and Rocco themselves, riding under the cover of the smog, engines screeching and speakers belching out rock music at full blast. Their tires kicked up mud and grime as they expertly weaved through the gaps in the swarm, blinding a number of Beedrill caught in their wake.

Koffing swooped around for another pass, spitting up toxins in every which direction the winged vermin tried to flee. Gio yanked Meowth and Tucker closer against him, pulling their faces toward him so that neither accidentally breathed in the pollution. One whiff of the stuff was an invitation to a coughing fit, best case scenario, and the last thing he needed was to bring Tucker home to his father with Purple Lung.

The noxious gas served its purpose, driving away the bulk of the swarm and paralyzing the stragglers. When the haze cleared and the grounds were secure, Gio climbed back to his feet. Petrel and Rocco screeched to a halt in front of him, switching off their radios and pulling up the visors of their helmets to flash proud, cocky smiles at him.

Gio opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut when he spotted Tucker's Cubone emerging from the treeline. The masked creature was a trembling fit as it slowly raised up its bone club, pointing it at the newcomers, Petrel in particular. Gio didn't know what to make of it, and glanced toward the taller man, expecting to find a Gastly or a Haunter sneaking up behind him to account for the Pokémon's reaction. He didn't though.

"Scram, pipsqueek," Petrel hollered, rising slightly out of his seat in warning.

The Cubone turned tail without hesitation, retreating deeper into the woods before Gio could say anything. He decided to leave it be, however; Tucker was safe and that was all that mattered, something of which he realized he still had to give thanks for. He turned towards his two buddies, shaking his head with a lopsided smirk.

"Had a change of heart, did you?" he teased.

Mirroring the smile, Petrel shrugged. "Well, I guess we just got bored sitting around."

"Speak fer yer self on tha' count," Rocco groused, arms crossed and brow lifted expectantly. "This is goin' on yer tab, boss."

It was an obvious pretense, one Gio could see clean through, but he nonetheless shrugged it off with a snort. "Uh huh. Well, thanks anyway."

"Nothing to it," Petrel sighed, clicking off his engine and nudging the kickstand in place with his foot. Rocco followed in suit, and the two closed the gap between Gio, their gazes heavy on Tucker, who was still lying unconscious against Diamond Dust.

"Sae, wha' did the laddie in?" Rocco asked after a fleeting inspection. "Poison Sting? Twineedle?"

Gio looked down at the boy and shook his head, wishing he had the answer. "He just collapsed," he recounted, pursing his lips. "I can't explain it. He was fine one second, then the next he was…"

"Out colder than ah kitchen-whacked karp," the Scotsman finished for him, though not quite in the words Gio would have used. Even so, he nodded.

"Just count yourself _lucky_ he's out cold," Gio said, turning to the duo again and hoisting up a finger to indicate the crossbones on Petrel's jacket. "What are you guys doing wearing our symbol anyway? You should know better."

"The kid knows us, Gio," Petrel reasoned. "He knows we're your chums. If he saw us on Team Righteous bikes, how were you planning on explaining that to him?" He then tapped his helmet. "Better he doesn't see our faces at all, right?"

It was a good point, a smart point, one Gio couldn't argue and also felt embarrassed for not having considered earlier. "Right," he chuckled, rubbing his forearm self-consciously. "I guess I didn't think of that when I asked for your help back at the Gym."

Rocco nodded. "Aye. Neither did we. Ye can thank Ari fer that."

"Well, glad to know she's a team player," Gio sniffed. He huffed and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "I need to get Tucker home to his father."

Petrel pointedly wagged his purple eyebrows. "And maybe claim a little reward money while you're at it?" Gio only needed to glare for Petrel to throw up his palms and retract the suggestion. "Kidding!"

A soft, groggy moan brought a swift end to the conversation and Gio spun around. Tucker was coming out of his slumber, sitting forward and vigorously rubbing his eyes. A dizzying pound started its way from Gio's head and down to his chest where his heart was galloping like a panicked Rapidash.

"Mhmm… Gio?" the boy croaked, blinking up at the older boy. Gio froze. This wasn't going to be an easy situation to justify or rationalize, yet Gio knew he would have to, somehow.

"Tucker, I," Gio spoke around a lump in his throat. "I can explain—"

Before he could get the next word out, Tucker shot to his feet in a mad panic, his eyes lingering over Gio's shoulder. "Look out! It's Team Righteous!"

Gio flinched, jaw slack. His brain was scrambling to play catch up.

"Fight them, Gio!" the boy urged, peering around him and pointing. "Show them who's boss!"

Gio gathered his wits and twisted around, the weight on his shoulders lifting the moment he saw Rocco and Petrel with their visors up. Tucker hadn't seen their faces after all.

The two men looked to each other, then began scurrying back to their bikes, completing a rather convincing performance without Gio even having to lift a finger. In fact, he was still standing there like a mook with his mouth half-open, even as his comrades mounted their rides and fired up their engines. It was strange to watch a problem work itself out for a change; he'd always been the one to act and sell himself for others, but now Petrel and Rocco had taken care of that for him.

Tucker laughed, loud and twinkling, as they drove off into the forest and disappeared. "Yeah, that's right! You better run! No one messes with Giovanni Ketchum!"

"Sakaki," Gio muttered in correction, furiously rubbing his temples. Legendaries, what a night.

"Hey, what happened to the Beedrill?" Tucker asked. Gio pretended to pay the question little attention as he marched back to his bike to check up on Meowth.

"I guess Team Righteous took care of them," he murmured evasively. Behind him, laughter bubbled out of Tucker again.

"Yeah, right, probably just so they could capture them all for themselves after you did all the heavy lifting! Cowards!"

"Tucker—"

"Wait a minute." Tucker glanced around, heel catching in a slick combination of mud and grass as he did a full pivot. "Where's Cubone?"

Gio heaved out a sigh, unwilling to lie this time. "He... ran off."

"Oh, you mean Team Righteous _scared him off_ ," the boy misinterpreted, and Gio didn't bother to correct him; it was probably better this way. "Well, that's alright. We'll find him. Now that you're here, there's nothing in these woods we can't face!"

Gio snapped to his feet, shaking his head furiously. "No. Absolutely not. I'm taking you home to your dad."

Expectantly, the young Oak turned an offended look on him. "What are you talking about? We can't just abandon Cubone!"

Gio breathed in through his nose, loud with nostrils flaring as he looked to the trees and then back to the boy, serious. "Tucker, I promised your dad—"

Not listening, Tucker pointed up toward the sky. "Look, the storm has passed! We'll find Cubone in no time if we—"

"Shut up about Cubone and just listen to me!" Gio snapped, stomping his foot in the mud, his sudden anger silencing Tucker and catching him like a punch.

The boy didn't move. He stared at Gio with a furious lack of understanding, a tenseness and surprise in those expressive, wide-set eyes. Then Gio saw the sheer hurt and fear reflecting back at him in them, and he immediately came to his senses, fumbling for words.

"That wasn't… look, I didn't mean—"

Tucker didn't let him finish and took off on foot, bolting into the densely packed trees.

"Tucker!" Gio shouted, reaching his hand out after him. "Tucker, wait!"

* * *

Every time Brutis entered the Grand Secretariat Chamber, he recognized it a little bit less. The blame was his, of course, for relinquishing it in the first place. He didn't require the space, and Salvis, ever the introvert, preferred confinement and privacy to the alarming vastness of the Red Library. For that reason, the chamber had been a generous donation to the latter's research, reoutfitted from an office quarters into a lab of sorts. Hundreds of sticky notes overran the crimson walls like square patches, each scrawled with nearly illegible algorithms and data collection apparently too menial to eat up memory on a slate or a drive.

Aside from the glow of the monitors and surveillance equipment, only a table lamp stood activated to bathe the chamber in a dull glow. It illuminated only a small portion of the workbench, its Ignicitic bulb a tiny gem of blue light that played against the holographic model of the Sinnoh Region projecting up toward the ceiling in a conical shape. Star constellations danced above and around the display, a comprehensive sea of white dots, frozen in time even as Brutis charted a path through them. He had long held the hypothesis that Salvis was attempting to construct a narrative with these mock-ups, something he could stare at for hours in a vain attempt to explain away questions he could never muster the courage to bring before the White Cloaks himself.

Brutis applauded the restraint. As Salvis was a servant of the Red Fold, any misstep from him would reflect poorly on Brutis and undermine all of his hard, careful work. It was one thing for a maverick shielded by nepotism to cross him, but Salvis wasn't Aurora. If the young scholar errored, there would be no one to spare him the secretariat's wrath. And Brutis relished having that power in lieu of other unearned privileges.

"Lord Brutis," the scholar's soft, meek voice surfaced ahead of the man himself. "I wasn't sure when to expect you back."

Brutis turned only his head as his fellow Red Cloak came out from the shadows, floating hither on a hover chair powered by the latest and most refined grade of Taragirite. His trusty slate sat comfortably in his lap, thoroughly detailing everything from the region's temperature and air humidity to slope movements and surrounding water pressure. Brutis couldn't recall the last time he spotted Salvis away from his tablet, but he also wasn't nescient to the irony of it. Even with a supposedly unseen connection to all things living and spiritual at their fingertips, these people relied on technology like the air they breathed. They just _had_ to know everything that their fickle meditation sessions could not show them, both above and below the surface. And for the most part, that knowledge was only a keystroke away.

"I managed to compile a list of all potential coordinates in Sinnoh where our impostor could be safeguarding the orb," Salvis informed, peering down at the display with his head cocked slightly to the side like that golden Noctowl pinned to his robe. He slid a gloved index finger over the screen, the map projection around them adjusting accordingly. "I think I've narrowed it down considerably."

Brutis waved off his words, stepping past him to stare blankly at one of the stagnant monitors on the wall. "What is the Crucitex's current status?" he asked in a sharp, pressuring voice.

The pause that followed told Brutis everything he needed to know. "The... work has slowed, I'm afraid."

"You ran the diagnostics yourself?"

There was an audible snag in Salvis's throat. "The weapon is uncompromised, for now," he explained in a slow, uneasy drawl. "However, without the Lustrous Orb, I don't imagine there will be any significant headway for the foreseeable future."

Brutis twisted around slowly, scanning the other hooded man, observing his fidgety posture. "This is what your calculations and data collection indicates, yes," he replied, making sure that single statement carried all the threat he could muster. "But you are an Aura User. So what does the Aura tell you, exactly? What can it divulge to you that I am not already aware of?"

Salvis drifted back on his pod as Brutis closed the gap between them in broad strides, slowly backing him against the table. "It's... clouded," Salvis uttered, the crack in his voice unmissed by Brutis.

"Of course it is," Brutis huffed, halting abruptly and leaning his weight forward against the back of an unoccupied hover chair. "That's all your kind ever tells me. That everything is clouded. That the future is uncertain."

Salvis shrunk into his shoulders, the very image of cowardice. Brutis didn't require any Aura to sense the other man's fear no more than he needed to pull down down the other's cowl to see it for his own eyes. He'd been around these people long enough to dissect and dichotomize them in other ways. It was all in the body language, even when it seemed there wasn't any to decrypt. He never failed to catch even the slightest of cracks in their imagined armor.

Capitalizing on his talent to create pressure, Brutis stood with his hand atop the chair back, regarding Salvis with a quizzical tilt of his head. "If the Aura is so powerful, why can't you use it to sense the thief and snuff out his position?"

Salvis visibly flinched at the question. "Unfortunately, his signature in the Aura is—"

"Let me guess... clouded?" Brutis cut him off, but Salvis's hooded head looked away as if embarrassed. The secretariat huffed and pushed his seat closer to his brilliant but spineless vassal. "Salvis, I have faith that you will serve me well. Because in serving me well, I can serve the High Prophet well. But if I fail, how will that look for you, I wonder? How will that look for the Red Fold as a whole?"

"Not so good, I imagine," came the other man's timid reply.

Brutis nodded curtly, joining his hands behind his back. "I'm glad you see my side of things."

"We have the technology," the slighter man rushed to reassure him, bringing up his display again and tapping his finger on it. "It's only a matter of time before we have him. Just look here."

Brutis dropped his hand from the chair and took a step nearer to Salvis, stopping before him, crossing his arms as he assessed the monitor on the slate. He'd done his job in compelling the scholar to take the situation more seriously, it seemed; fear was indeed an effective motivator in the right doses.

With a brushing hand motion, Salvis dismissed the atmospheric counts on the screen and pulled up a map correspondent with the hologram, zooming in on northern Sinnoh with a pinch of two fingers. "About a week ago, I started picking up powerful energy readings at these coordinates," he explained, his pointer digit drawing Brutis's gaze to the mountains lining Solaceon Town. "Then some time passed and those readings shifted east."

Brutis lifted his gaze from the tablet, favoring the projection over the display. The hologram of the landmass panned out around him, then just as quickly honed in on the far side of the mountain bend, gradually drifting to the right in compliance with Salvis's finger movements. The focus then froze above Sunyshore City, and Brutis squinted, spotting the anomaly Salvis spoke of. He stepped deeper into the projection for a better look at the infrared spec glimmering near the shoreline.

"As you can see," Salvis drawled on, "that energy is concentrated here, and it hasn't shifted in days."

"Sunyshore City," Brutis whispered, more in amusement to himself than in response to his assistant. It was just too perfect, really. Of all the locations...

Salvis gave an eager nod. His index finger then made a circular motion on the slate, which in turn caused the hologram of the coastal city to rotate on an axis around Brutis. "Something in the vicinity is causing this phenomenon."

Brutis nodded once. "You believe it's the Lustrous Orb."

One of the scholar's shoulders lifted in the approximation of a shrug, straddling the line between an outright yes and no. "I would be amazed if it wasn't, especially considering the energy patterns are nearly identical to that of those spatial samples we collected from the Sinjoh Ruins."

Brutis rested his leather-clad fist on his hip, his other fist coiling and uncoiling thoughtfully in front of him. "We must tread carefully then," he decided after a beat, signaling his lesser to switch off the projection. "If the impostor is there, we can't alert him to our presence and risk chasing him off again. I'll send Aurora to investigate. She let him slip away once, so she should be the one to make this right."

Salvis tilted his head to one side. "And... should she fail?"

Brutis cracked a weak smile beneath his cowl. "Then at least we finally have an excuse to be rid of her."

"Leaving Team Rocket to pick up her slack," the other surmised, seeming to be thinking out loud. Brutis let it go and rocked back on his heels as he considered the statement.

"Potentially," he supplied vaguely after a moment, folding his arms over his chest.

Salvis cleared his throat. "Forgive me, but has your… _contact_ on the surface reached out to them yet?"

"It's an ongoing discussion," Brutis answered flatly, and left it at that. It wasn't really a matter of confidentiality. There just simply wasn't much news to share on that front.

"Lord Brutis," a voice called through the darkness of the chamber. Brutis spun around to find a Black Cloak poking his sheathed head through the doors. "Pardon the interruption, but the High Prophet requests your presence in the sanctum."

And just like that, Brutis's smile melted away.

"Sir," Salvis squeaked out, drawing the secretariat's gaze once more. "Shall I upload these recent findings to the main terminal so that you may share them with the Reverent Ones?"

Brutis shook his head. "I won't present anything to Lord Morbis that isn't absolutely foolproof."

"Right, of course."

"For now, this remains between us," Brutis instructed, waiting on Salvis to nod in acknowledgment. Once he did, the secretariat promptly took his leave.

* * *

Tucker could practically hear his mom's voice in his head telling him to think positive thoughts, and also his dad's explaining how negativity was only a self-fulfilling prophecy. Both pieces of advice played on an endless loop in his head as he trudged back onto the main forest trail, toward Viridian City, desperately hoping to find his lost Pokémon there.

The sun was coming up, shafts of light that made their way through the treetops lying scattered on the bumpy dirt path beneath his feet. He spaced out staring at the different patterns until a shadow clipped through them, alerting him to something in the sky. He tilted his head back on his shoulders and saw Gio's Skarmory through the gaps in the canopy, soaring overhead and letting out a raspy cry.

A rumbling noise followed, steadily getting louder and closer. Tucker shouldn't have been surprised Skarmory had given away his position, but he gritted his teeth all the same, Gio's cold words still fresh in his memory. He had nothing to say to the older boy. He just wanted to be left alone so that he could find Cubone.

When he heard Diamond Dust coming up the path behind him, he didn't even turn his head. The older boy called to him but he didn't react, prompting Gio to pull up beside him, braking just enough to match his pace.

"Hey," Gio uttered, not so much a greeting as a calling to attention. Tucker pretended not to notice, shifting from foot to foot, his eyes trained ahead. Gio grunted, "Will you just talk to me?"

Sighing, Tucker glanced sideways. "If you're not going to help me find Cubone, go away."

Gio's mouth snapped open and shut again, and he shifted slightly on his bike before replying, "You're not going to find him very fast on foot, you know."

Tucker shook his head at the implied offer, turning his face forward again. "No thanks. It's obvious you don't care about him."

With a huff, Gio turned the motorcycle sharply and stomped fully on the brake pedal. He screeched to a stop in front of the boy, forcing Tucker's feet to halt. "Look, I shouldn't have snapped at you, alright? I'm sorry."

Tucker puffed himself up and stood taller, listening but not caring to say anything just yet. He was open to an apology, but only if it was a _real_ apology. And he just wasn't sold yet. He looked to Meowth clinging to Gio's shoulder; the recovering Pokémon batted its lashes, as if to apologize on his Trainer's behalf, and Tucker couldn't resist the little grin spreading to his lips.

"There you go," Gio chuckled, pointing at the change in expression, even as Tucker rushed to cover his mouth and hide it. "That's the Tucker I know."

Tucker searched the older boy's face, frowning. He still wasn't sure Gio understood how much his outburst had hurt him earlier, scared him even. He'd always looked up to Gio as the perfect Pokémon Trainer, the perfect role model, yet to see him lash out and raise his voice like that stuck with him. Gio had never yelled at him before. Ever.

"I got worked up before, I know," Gio admitted softly, shaking his head. "But that's only because I didn't know how important Cubone was to you. And if Cubone's important to you, he's important to me too." Smiling, he twisted his torso halfway and patted the end of the seat. "Now hop on already, will you?"

Tucker shuffled in place. "I don't know…"

"Going once," Gio said.

Tucker sized him up, then tossed his arms up in surrender. "Fine," he sighed, climbing up behind the older boy.

* * *

After a bumpy ride out of the Viridian Forest, Gio and Tucker took the backstreets of Viridian City and cut through town from there, the latter's supposed 'sixth sense' pointing them straight to the Pokémon Academy. Gio didn't question it. He couldn't, not now, not after he'd nearly driven the boy away with his damned temper. Then again, maybe the further away Tucker was from him, the better.

Gio braked where the curb met the wire fence lining the perimeter of the vacant school grounds, kicking down the kickstand and cutting the engine. "You're sure this is the place?" he asked over his shoulder.

Tucker didn't answer, hopping off the bike and flattening himself face-forward against the fence, shaking it wildly as if to tear it down. When that didn't happen, he laced his fingers through the mesh wire, leaning up against the frame, his head swinging left and right before stopping abruptly.

Gio threw his leg over the bike silently, coming up behind Tucker. He followed the boy's fervent gaze to what looked like a lone tree stump sitting on the far side of the field near the treeline. "Is that the spot you were talking about?" he asked, hoping for an answer this time. When none came, he moved around to stand beside the young Oak. "Tucker? You okay?"

After a moment, Tucker's face unfroze, dropping altogether, his fingers going slack and slipping hopelessly down the fence. "It doesn't matter," he croaked. "He's not here. I was wrong."

Gio smiled thinly, nudging the boy with an elbow. "Hey, cheer up. I'm sure Team Righteous didn't get to him or anything."

Tucker shook his head, looking down woefully as he toed at the dirt. "He's moved on. Nothing else to it."

"Tucker…" A lump formed in Gio's throat, but he spoke around it, his voice haggard. "He's a Wild Pokémon, Tucker. That's just how it is."

He nodded, but it was a dispirited motion, like grim acceptance. "I just thought… maybe Cubone and I were the same, you know? Guess I had it all wrong."

Gio ran a hand through his own hair, unsure what to say. Guilt tore at his gut and he wasn't really sure why.

"He got sick of this place and moved on," sniffled Tucker, a heartbroken note in his voice that Gio was neither accustomed to hearing nor wanted to be. "And now it's just me all alone again, stuck in one place like before."

"You're not alone." Gio grabbed Tucker by the shoulders and looked down at him, past the wisps of hair that fell in his eyes.

The boy slowly shook his head, looking down at his feet again. "I was stupid to think that things were looking up, that I was on my way to becoming a Pokémon Trainer. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe it's time for me to just grow up already."

Gio swallowed. "We've both got some growing to do," he uttered, kneeling down and meeting the other's somber gaze again. "But don't ever stop being _you_ , Tucker. Okay? You're already twice the Pokémon Trainer I could ever hope to become. You may not have the skill or experience under your belt, but you have the heart and attitude. Don't lose that. Don't throw in the towel."

Tucker gave a single nod because that was all he could manage before a series of sobs racked through his skinny frame. Every ounce of strength Gio had carried dripped away into a puddle of nothing at the sight of the boy breaking down. He pulled him toward him, feeling the broken youth twitching in his arms, like he was holding back so much. And Legendaries knew Gio had been there before. More recently than he cared to admit.

Gio bit down on his bottom lip. His mouth was so dry he was afraid to open it, like sand or dirt might come spilling out if he tried. But he willed the words out anyhow, because they had to be said. "I know I haven't been around for you much," he rasped, palming the back of the boy's bushy head. "And I'm sorry. I'm going to try my best to change that though. No matter what it costs me, I'll keep everything together."

* * *

Miles of galleries stretched in all directions around Brutis as he stepped into the heart of the sanctum. He tossed his hooded head on his shoulders, letting his gaze ascend higher and higher, counting the many balconies of the many lofty floors overlooking the altar grounds. Once, he would have been helpless to navigate this massive structure without a map; the sheer scale alone could have told a Feebas that this temple was more than just a place of meditation. It was also a haven of knowledge, dwarfing even the Red Library with its universe of books, all contained in varying chambers of every architectural style imaginable. There were so many, in fact, that he had yet to even explore them all.

He moved deeper into the temple, his feet charting his way to the Chamber of Origin sealed on the other side of the sanctuary. He walked its musty archway to the end, down the treacherous flight of stone steps that followed, straight to the massive doors that towered at twice the height of a Tyranitar. He stood before them patiently and ran a gloved hand over the faces of the spacetime deities carved into their rugged surface, nearly identical to the two idols standing sentry on either side of the entrance.

Their eyes flashed. He pulled his arm away and promptly stepped back. The esteemed Lord Morbis was ready for him.

The doors slowly parted, groaning on their massive hinges to admit him. When he entered, the change from the rest of the Sanctum was palpable as a dense fog smothered his vision. Darkness was abundant; though he was accustomed to that for the most part, here it seemed to hang more thickly. The air reeked of a dense, cloying scent of herbs and burning incense, and every time he took a deep breath, it threatened to turn into a coughing fit. He'd known Morbis to dabble in potion synthesis on occasion under the tutelage of the witch clan, but this smelt far more powerful.

There were few furnishings to fill the misty, centuries-old chamber, but what there was looked to be made of ancient, outdated make. Most of the space, in fact, was taken up by trunks and crates and piles of books. More or less Morbis's own personal library at this point. Books were the only tangible possessions Brutis had ever known his superior to treasure—none more so than the volumes currently occupying the Mantle of Origin.

Indeed, the lofty bookcase revolving on a base of hard, worn grain couldn't be missed. Accompanying it on either side stood a stone pillar erected in the likeness of Arceus, each alight with a brazier giving rise to crackling blue embers; no doubt the source of the odor. They offered no warmth in this cold, sorry excuse for a mancave, however. And Morbis apparently had no fear for the cold, standing impassively in the dull glow of the shrine with his arched back to Brutis, leaning all of his weight on his cane as he fixated on the sparsely filled shelves like he so often did.

The lone, chained-up shelf allowed just enough space for six books in total, yet the spines of only two volumes stood pronounced and collecting dust, a fact that was never lost on Morbis. Brutis had never even heard of the Chronicles of Oci before joining the Coalition, and even now, he considered them ponderous tomes from some forgotten era. To Morbis, however, they were, for whatever reason, both a privilege and a heavy shame. Brutis didn't quite understand the importance of the relic book collection; he only knew a few missing volumes couldn't possibly be worth all this needless melodrama.

"You summoned me, Lord Morbis," Brutis spoke into the darkness, approaching on steady feet, trying to keep his movements smooth. The White Cloak turned neither his head nor his body, frozen in place like the ancient stonework and architecture surrounding him. Brutis grew a touch bolder and moved to stand beside his superior. Morbis eyed him sidelong, or so it felt like; the cowl made it difficult to know for certain.

"The orb," he rumbled, without preamble.

Brutis nodded in acknowledgment. "We're closing in. The impostor won't stay hidden from us for long."

"He won't," the other concurred, soft-spoken but menacing. "Because _he_ will come to _us_."

The statement admittedly caught Brutis off guard, though he didn't let it show. "What makes you say this?"

"Because," Morbis drew out the word, rotating his bent, hooded head at last, "his business is only half-finished."

Brutis blinked at the High Prophet from beneath his own hood, requiring a moment to consider the implication of that. "We do not possess the other timespace orb."

"He does not know that."

"Then we have nothing to fear."

"We have nothing to fear from _him_ , yes," Morbis indulged, if only for a beat. "But we have everything to fear from what he represents. Or perhaps I should say, we have everything to fear from what _you_ _allow_ him to represent by failing to stop him. How soon before others like him decide we are vulnerable?"

Brutis didn't let the verbal jab deflate him, and renewed his posture. "He will be rooted out from whatever hole he's hiding in and be made an example of. It's only a matter of time."

"Time," Morbis echoed flatly, mocking now without being obvious about it. His head swung on his shoulders, taking in his surroundings, and he pitched his voice thoughtful and low. "Do you know who built this sanctum, Brother Brutis?"

Brutis said nothing for a moment, debating whether it was a trick question. "The Pokémopolitan Empire," he posited.

The High Prophet shook his head in the negative. "The people who built this place didn't inflict their vanity on those who came after them," he explained. "Their way was clean. Their way was pure. Strip away the polish and the luster, tear down the mechanisms and the technology, and this is what remains." He skimmed his bloodless fingers fondly along the ridge of the dusty, stone mantle. "Something simple... something solid and true, all finery stripped away."

Brutis elected not to respond, and a tense minute passed before the silence was finally shattered. Eventually, Morbis twisted away from his prized relics, regarding Brutis with a stare the latter couldn't see, yet felt cold and arresting all the same. "What will we find, I wonder, when we strip away _your_ finery? Will we find that same shell of a man who came to us lonely, broken and destitute?"

"You will find what you see before you now," came the Red Cloak's reply, immediate and shameless. "A humble servant."

"Will we?" Thinly veiled taunting. It was always Morbis's thing.

Even so, Brutis nodded so sharply his neck ached.

As if unconvinced, Morbis made a sound akin to a sigh, his white cowl shaking back and forth with his head. "You are not the first to make that promise. Quinton Wade often spoke of loyalty when he donned the red cloak, yet that did not stop him from betraying our trust and making off with our most precious knowledge."

"So I've been told," Brutis said softly, keeping his responses short and neutral. His eyes flinched back to the empty spots on the shelf, no doubt right where Morbis wanted them now that Wade's name had been spoken. He'd only heard stories of the rogue disciple in question, the memory of the man vilified throughout the Coalition simply because he'd stolen some of the books that had once filled these vacant spaces. It had to have been decades since that incident, but of course, grudges died slowed deaths in the Coalition.

"And now we have been robbed yet again," Morbis rasped, no doubt referencing the orb and no doubt implying foul play on Brutis's part. The secretariat stood his ground, however, and leveled his gaze with the one hidden from him.

"I had no part in the scheme to steal the Lustrous Orb," he said.

"I know that," Morbis ground out. He stalked to Brutis, looming. "I speak of another injustice. I believe you know which one."

Now, in the impossible quiet, with Morbis's shadowed eyes weighing heavily on him beneath that white cowl, Brutis remembered all too vividly the very moment in question. The moment he'd sold away any potential for a legacy or a dynasty of his own. As much as he would have liked to block out the memory, the White Cloaks wouldn't have it, not until their end of the bargain was met in full. Sure, they would never kill him over it, not as long as they required his faculties and connections on the surface world; but they would lord it over him like a curse or some unwashable stain, make sure the failure followed him to his grave. As if they needed another excuse to demean him and keep him under their boots.

Morbis hovered even closer to him if that were even possible. His skeletal finger was raised like he was a schoolteacher shorn of patience. "When we invited you into the Brotherhood of the Blue Flame, we demanded but one thing in return. You have yet to satisfy that debt. If you had, you might already be wearing your White Cloak by now."

There was more truth to that statement than Brutis cared to admit, but he didn't dwell on it. "I don't know that what you ask is possible," he confessed softly, cordially. "As you know, I do not possess the gift."

"Even a rotten tree can yield ripe fruit," the White Cloak countered, the implied insult unmissed by Brutis. The Red Cloak easily shrugged it off though.

"I have been trying, Lord Morbis," Brutis explained, forcing as much politeness into his tone and etiquette as he could muster. "Neither contender has shown any marked improvement. And one of them, of late, is in no condition—"

"You promised us, Brutis." The High Prophet's voice was gentle except for the last word, a bitter growl he made of his name. Gone was the lilting tone meant to lull the secretariat into a false sense of security.

"You don't need them," Brutis rebuked, more forcefully than intended. "You have _me_. I can still prove my worth. My oath to the Brotherhood is taken for life. Only death may relieve me of that charge."

Morbis inclined his head the tiniest bit and slowly smoothed the silver, wiry beard spilling out of his cowl. "Whose death, precisely? Yours? Mine?"

Another poorly disguised pitfall, and of course, Brutis knew to step carefully around it. "I would never wish for your death," he answered evenly.

Morbis started to laugh, a haggard and rattling sound, but apparently thought better of it. "I've been dying for years, Brother Brutis," he huffed, twisting on tired feet to face his precious mantle once more. "It's a wearisome process. But I swore I would survive to see our vision realized. A vision centuries in the making. We will stay buried no longer. We will have our justice. We will purge the world of the very evil that drove us into the shadows so long ago."

Brutis nodded, knowing his elder didn't need his eyes to see the motion.

"You know our words," growled the elder Cloak. "Now say them."

"'オーラが上昇します""オーラが上昇します""オーラが上昇します'," Brutis effortlessly recited in the ancient tongue.

Morbis slowly turned to him again and nodded once in approval, standing up straighter and resting both hands on his cane. "The surface world belongs to us," he declared gruffly. "It's yours, and mine. Will you help me to conquer it?"

"Yes, Lord Morbis."

The White Cloak lifted one finger from the knob of his cane, a subtle gesture of caution. "Then start by keeping your promises."

"As you wish," Brutis said, bowing his head and smirking ever so slightly beneath the asylum of his hood. He'd done it. He'd measured the old man's insecurities unnoticed. The soil was finally ripe and now the proper seeds could be planted.

* * *

Upon stepping through the threshold of his house, Gio pulled his gloves off and unzipped his jacket, giving an exasperated huff as he tossed both articles to the floor carelessly. He kicked his boots off next and made for the living room, collapsing on the couch there. He pulled a pillow over his head. His mind swirled.

He'd been confident he could straddle two worlds and find a way to keep everyone happy, yet he still felt like he was being pulled by a gut string. The monster possessing him was kicking and screaming to break free, and no matter how hard he tried to quiet him, it was never enough. He could no longer keep that part of himself separate from the man he tried so hard to be for everyone else. The way he'd exploded on Tucker earlier proved just that. He couldn't hide his darkness. He couldn't run from it. And the worn pages of his father's journal certainly couldn't cure it.

It was humiliating, really. He was a grown adult, who should have been able to make decisions for himself, who should have had a firm hold on his life. And yet here he was, constantly doubting his choices and second-guessing himself, and it was going to give him an aneurysm at the fresh age of twenty-one. If there was a right answer, a right avenue to walk, he couldn't see it anywhere. He wasn't at a crossroads or a threshold; he was simply paralyzed, knowing any move he made would bring consequence in some way.

But it couldn't just be about him, he understood, so what more could he do at this point but hold out for as long as he could in order to keep the ones he loved happy and content? Distance himself? Put up more walls? Better that than risk exposing them all to the devil inside.

The creak of a rocking chair pushed Gio to his feet. Meowth was already alert to the intrusion, hissing at the darkened corner of the room where the outline of a man sat, calmly rocking back and forth. Slowly, Gio stepped away from the couch, backing toward the wall and hitting the lightswitch there. The shadows lifted from the corner of the room, revealing the trespasser.

Zephyr. His mother's top henchman.

"How did you get in here?" Gio demanded in a low growl.

The much older man smiled and held up a lock pick by way of reply.

Gio narrowed his gaze. "My mother sent you," he realized.

The Rocket agent nodded, rising to his feet.

Gio waved for Meowth to stand down, but frowned, considering what sort of message this was supposed to be. He already knew deep down, though. He understood well enough that this was a threat more than a message, a warning that if he strayed from his obligations to Team Rocket any longer, his mother wasn't above sending her lackeys to poke around in his turf. Kade had promised collateral, after all. If today it was his home being broken into, who was to say tomorrow it wouldn't be Delia's or Sam's?

No. He couldn't let that happen.

"I guess I had this coming." He sucked on his teeth and turned back toward the hall, before moving to step past the unnervingly quiet agent. "I don't need you breathing down my neck, alright? I'll call headquarters right now and talk this out with her."

"No need," Zephyr spoke, the two words twisting Gio around on his heel. The senior agent's rugged lips tugged into a wicked grin. "She's here in Viridian City."

Gio paled. "She's... here?"

A nod. "She'd like to speak with you in person."

The vague threat hit Gio in the throat first, squeezing it, making it hard to swallow. He rubbed his neck to soothe the phantom sensation, staring down at his feet. Then he nodded, slow, reluctant, forced. Face twisted with disdain.

"There's a bar off the outskirts of town, just a mile north of here," Gio muttered after a moment, his glare rising to meet Zephyr's again. "If she wants to hash this out, that's where I'll be."

The Rocket gave a single, curt nod. As he stepped to take his leave, he took a moment to glance around. "Nice place," he remarked, smiling again before shouldering past Gio.

Gio listened for the sound of the front doors clicking shut behind his unwanted guest, then dropped to his knees, viciously yanking the journal out from his pants pocket and throwing it down in front of him. He dropped to his hands next, breathing heavily. That was the part when he should have roared. He should have pummelled the journal until the binding snapped, hit it against the floor repeatedly and ripped its useless, worthless pages to shreds, punish it for giving him false hope, for dangling possibilities in front of him and then yanking them out from under his feet.

But instead, he looked at the floor and pretended that the frustrated tear that had landed there was actually just a stray bead of sweat. He felt Meowth rub up against his arm, and he blinked away the burning in his eyes. The Pokémon stopped in front of him, placing a paw on one of his tense, flattened hands, letting him know that he was there. Smiling slightly, Gio breathed in and out slowly, letting the rhythm vent the darker emotions from him so that he could hear himself think again.

Then he nodded, forcing himself to come to terms with his circumstances. He would accept his role. He had tried to be deserving of some kind of peace and a modicum of the normality he'd lost over the last two years, but he had obviously failed. He would give into his mother and go back to being Team Rocket's errand boy. He would embrace his shadow life if there was really no other way to protect everyone and everything he held dear. He wouldn't do it to please the monster inside though. He would do it for Delia, for Tucker, to keep their lives from being uprooted by the evil both within him and outside him.

* * *

Tucker had neglected to say one word to his dad since getting home. He didn't even make eye contact with him as he came downstairs for lunch, walking on sluggish feet and plopping unceremoniously down at the table. He wasn't angry or upset, though he wasn't sure the same could be said for his old man. If some punishment was coming his way, he was fine with that. He didn't have the energy or willpower to argue. It wouldn't get him anywhere. And besides, he knew he'd screwed up. He deserved to be grounded, have his allowance taken away, his corral privileges revoked, whatever.

They ate in silence, for the most part, the clatter of spoon on bowl and chewing all that filled the air between them. Just when the tension started to become almost unbearable, Tucker opened his mouth to speak, feeling like an apology was due, if nothing else. When he pulled his gaze up from his soup, however, his jaw clicked shut at the sight of his dad balancing a spoon on his nose.

"Pops, what are you—"

The elder Oak held up a finger for silence, concentrating. Tucker, against his will, couldn't smother the grin creeping to his lips. Oh yes, he remembered this game.

"Drowzee," he guessed, slouching back in his seat, confident in his answer.

His dad carefully shook his head, still making an idiot of himself.

Tucker played along, venturing his next best guess. "Donphan?"

The elder Oak nodded, taking the spoon off his face and transitioning into the next round without pause. This time he held the spoon outward, working his thumb in an effort to bend it, but failing miserably.

"Kadabra!" Tucker howled out, unable to keep from laughing. "Now quit it before you hurt yourself!"

"Wrong," his dad replied. "Alakazam."

Tucker smacked his own face. "Alakazam holds _two_ spoons, dad. You know that."

Shrugging, his dad swapped out the spoon for a knife. He reached across the table to collect two more and then lodged them between clenched fingers, mimicking a claw and making quick swiping motions. Tucker had to think hard about this one.

"Hmmm… Sneasel?"

"Ooooh, so close…"

"Weavile!" Tucker guessed again, his voice coming out as a squeal. His dad pushed out his lip in a mock pout and splayed his palms, admitting defeat.

They laughed together for a moment, and then, as the quiet began to set in again, this time more relaxed, Tucker found the courage to say what he'd been meaning to say.

"Pops, listen," he began on the tail end of a deep breath. "All that stuff I said to you before I ran away. I didn't mean any of—"

His dad held up a hand, as if to let him know it was all water under the bridge. Though surprised, Tucker smiled and quietly returned to his meal.

"I still intend to enroll you at Pokémon Tech while I teach at Celadon," his dad tossed out as a sort of footnote, not that it wasn't unexpected.

"Yeah, I figured," Tucker murmured, shrugging as he poked at his noodles with his spoon.

"But that doesn't mean you shouldn't have a Pokémon companion of your own," the older Oak continued after a pause, making Tucker look up from the table once more. The professor was wearing a proud grin this time. "Gio told me you befriended a Cubone. You might consider bringing him with you."

The invitation might have had Tucker jumping for joy a day ago, but now, the words just bounced right off of him. "I don't think that's gonna happen," he uttered, the defeat in his voice painful to his own ears. "Cubone's gone. He's not coming back."

His dad's brows were furrowed in concern, lips pulled down at the corners. "Gone?"

Tucker nodded, glancing down and away, almost ashamed. "He didn't want me for a friend or for a Trainer. So he left."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

Tucker looked up from his lap, brows high.

"Human and Pokémon relationships are my field of expertise, remember?" chuckled the elder Oak. "If the bond you share with Cubone is strong, he will return to you."

Tucker shrugged, not quite as confident in that, but offered a mumbled, "Yeah, maybe."

His dad's smile brightened. "Just keep your chin up. Cubone may surprise you."

"Are you and Gio friends again?" He didn't know where the question came from, but for whatever reason, it just bubbled out of him.

His dad blinked at him for a moment, caught off guard. "I… don't think we ever stopped being friends, per se, Tucker," he explained, fidgeting in his chair and wiping his mouth with a napkin. "We just sort of… drifted apart."

"You mean like me and Cubone?"

"Well…" The older Oak paused, briefly glancing sideways as though in thought, before nodding. "Yes, in a sense."

Tucker chewed at his bottom lip, considering that. "So if me and Cubone can still find our way back to each other, does that mean you and Gio can too?"

His dad chuffed out a laugh, a brand new smile pulling at his lips. "That's the poet in you talking."

Tucker didn't try to hide his own smile, his shoulders shrugging up to his ears and then back down again. "I had to inherit _something_ from you, I guess."

His dad let out another hearty laugh but immediately overcast it with a frown, as if remembering something. Tucker noticed and decided to bring focus back to the conversation.

"For what it's worth," the boy began casually, doing his best to make it sound like a harmless afterthought, "whenever I go to Gio for advice, he always tells me I should listen to you. I mean, he's all for me becoming a Pokémon Trainer and everything, but he still says that you're my dad and I should respect you."

The professor smiled, softly this time. He didn't say anything though. He just went back to eating, and Tucker thought better of broaching the subject any more. It wasn't his business, and really, he'd done all he could. He knew when to back off.

After a minute or so, his dad picked up one of the knives again and held the end of it against his forehead, picking up where they left off. Tucker nearly spat up his soup laughing when he realized it was supposed to be a horn.

"Any guesses?" the professor challenged, smirking.

Tucker stroked his chin. "Gotta be Nidoran."

"Nidoran? Really?" the older Oak exhaled in mock disappointment. "I raised you better than that!"

"Err… Goldeen?"

"Warmer."

"Seaking!"

"Ha! That's my boy!"

* * *

"Thanks for lending a hand, Cuddles," Delia huffed, glancing over her shoulder as she lugged a heavy grocery bag in her arms.

The Ursaring stomping at her heels let out a joyful laugh, effortlessly swinging two grocery bags of equal weight from each paw as if they were dumbbells. Delia couldn't help giggling. The powerhouse Pokémon never failed to use a walk home from the market as a chance to show off, and she didn't mind. Running errands never seemed such a bother when she had such a big, burly but lovable companion for company. She remembered being a little intimidated when her adorable Teddiursa evolved into a hairy giant, but now, it very much payed off to have a strong extra pair of hands both around and outside the house. And she'd made her peace with the workload a long time ago; her mother had become her father's full-time caretaker, so naturally, the cleaning and cooking and shopping all fell to her whenever she wasn't working up a sweat at the Pallet House.

Cold water splashed over her shoes as she briskly stepped through the leftover rain puddles cluttering the dirt road. She glanced up toward the clear sky. The storm had moved on, the sun now burning like an oven above her and kissing her face warmly, as if to usher in more pleasant days. Nicer weather was always welcome, but she was starting to feel a little more optimistic about life anyway. She'd been wound up so tightly worrying about her father and Gio and about a kajillion other things, but ever since standing up to her mother and Sam, she felt like she'd finally found some kind of foothold. Like she could finally have some say as to how to live her life.

To that end, maybe things could get better if she just stayed ahead of all the pressures and kept her chin held high.

As she came up on the squat, red-roofed house at the end of the road, she reigned in the smile that had sprung unchecked to her face when she heard a muffled yelp. The front door flung open before she and Ursaring even reached the white picket fence, her mother racing out onto the porch, tears in her eyes. Delia froze in place.

"Delia," the older woman croaked into her own hand, trying to stifle her sobs. Right away Delia knew. The grocery bag fell out of her arm and crashed somewhere at her feet, food spilling out onto the damp ground.

Everything that followed was a blur. Her feet carried her swiftly past her mother, into the house, up the stairs, and around the corner into the darkened bedroom where her father lay. She was hunched over his bedside in an instant, but he didn't acknowledge her, weary eyes-half lidded and breath leaving him in shallow spurts of air that rattled in his lungs. He was coming to the end.

"Daddy," she gasped, already feeling a sting beneath her eyes as she watched his chest rise and fall beneath the blanket, slower each time. "Daddy," she attempted once more, sniffling. "Can you hear me?"

He couldn't even part his lips to attempt words. She reached out with her hand, touching his sunken face, his cold, brittle skin, trying to warm him. She gave him a look-over, and it hit her just how fragile he looked. So, so fragile. She feared he might break if she poked too hard.

His eyes cracked open just a bit wider. He passed her a thin, weak smile, and all other thoughts faded in her mind. She made herself return the smile, forgetting the tears swimming in her eyes, just cherishing these final moments with him before they could slip away.

"That's right," she whispered. "It's me. It's Delia."

He opened his mouth, but only a wheeze came out, his smile breaking beneath the violent sound and hers following in suit. When he went calm, his eyes drifted to her sadly, and he gently removed her palm from his cheek by taking her hand in his, as if to let her know that this was really goodbye.

She kept herself together, lifting their entwined hands to her lips and kissing his knuckles gently before lowering them again. "I just wanted you to know," she began in a trembling voice, swallowing around the secret she'd kept bottled for two long years. "Jareth. He lived. I saw him again, daddy."

His brows slowly drew up. Even if he could not voice his happiness at hearing those words, at the knowledge that she'd reconnected with her brother, she could see it faintly sparkling in his dimming eyes.

"He saved my life," she whispered, smiling for the both of them now. "You didn't fail him as a father. You didn't." She shut her eyes tightly, exhaling in a shudder, "And you didn't fail me either."

He stared at her weakly for as long as his strength allowed. Then, slowly, he tossed his head. With his other shaking hand, he reached underneath the pillow to his left and pulled out something. She leaned forward in her seat, stunned to find that it was a silver locket. It was shaped like a heart, a bit rusted, but beautiful.

"Your... eyes... only," he rasped each word slowly, the effort costing him dearly in the form of a merciless cough. She stared bewildered at the object. Her mouth fell open, so many questions on her tongue, but it snapped shut when she saw all the blood drain from his face. His fingers twitched against hers, going limp. With all the energy he had left, he smiled one last time. And she couldn't collect herself in time to utter a final goodbye before his eyes suddenly went still, and he slipped away. Nothing but a small puff of air passed through his pale lips before his chest, too, fell a final time, never to rise again.

By the time she processed he was gone, she didn't sob or scream. There was no need for any of that. He'd left the world with a smile, and _that_ was how he'd wanted to be remembered in his dying moments. She couldn't bring herself to spoil it. She felt relief, if anything, that his pain and misery was finally over.

She bowed her head, resting it on his limp hand, before taking the locket enclosed in it. She rose out of her seat, kissing the top of his head gently, a few tears escaping her eyes but not a one more. She wiped them away and mustered all the composure needed to face her mother as she slowly walked out of the room, into the hall.

The older woman was just coming up the stairs, huffing and puffing. "I just got off the phone! The ambulance is—"

"He's gone," Delia spat up the words, numb to the pain that they drove into her chest. Her mother flinched, but her face only portrayed a fraction of emotion, like she'd been expecting this, like she'd already known as much deep down. She sucked in a sharp breath, eyes falling closed weakly for a moment.

Delia drew toward her mother, throwing her arms around her. "He's at peace now, mother. He's not suffering anymore."

"I know," her mother whispered into her ear, resting her head on Delia's shoulder, a single sob racking through her tall frame. Delia held her tighter, glancing up only once to look upon the locket concealed in her hand, before quickly closing her fist around it again.

* * *

Gio's mind was racing as he held the booth for him and the woman he hadn't spoken to in over a year. How was this even going to work? What was he supposed to talk about with her? Couldn't he just take his punishment and get the hell out of here without all the bullshit in between? Knowing her, probably not.

The bar was quiet despite the time, being almost one o'clock when most people in the city usually settled down for lunch with their coworkers. He'd chosen this spot over others because of how remote and out of the way it was, especially in proximity to Officer Jenny's usual patrol routes. Also, he didn't expect his mother to have the common sense to wear a disguise when she showed up, so at least the location was accommodating of that. Discretion had never been a friend to Rita Ketchum.

A moment passed and Gio nervously flicked his eyes up, confused for a moment before his entire childhood came crashing down on him in a million fragments. He could smell her from across the establishment, that overbearing perfume she always liked to wear. Growing up, he'd always thought it should be a crime for someone to wear fragrance so strong, so pungent. If she wasn't neglecting him verbally, one whiff of the stuff was usually all it took to send him scurrying back to his bedroom.

Then he saw her, strutting over to him in shiny, red heels that clicked and clacked out a staccato of pomposity. Raven hair that looked almost a grim shade of purple beneath the dimmers billowed behind her like a banner, much longer than he remembered; darker, too, which starkly contrasted the wintry, pale whiteness of her skin. Hell, he'd never seen her so white. Years spent in shadows and darkness had definitely caught up to her.

"Could you have picked more of a dump?" she whined, plopping unceremoniously into the seat across the table and giving her surroundings her world famous stink eye. No greeting, no nothing. Maybe he shouldn't have been surprised.

"Oh, stop," he swatted down the petty complaint. "This place is perfect for all this incognito nonsense. It's the kind of place you take hookers and ugly broads. So nobody sees you."

She eyed him brusquely, the implied insult not gliding right over her head, miraculously. "Don't be a brat," she scoffed, snapping her fingers. "And sit up straight."

Gio winced at the sharp tone, but somehow ended up correcting his posture. Old habits, he reasoned.

"Charmeleon cocktail, easy on the ember sauce," she hollered to the worker manning the counter, snapping her fingers all the while, every bit as rude and belligerent as he remembered.

"Really?" Gio mumbled. "At this hour?"

She made light of the snarky remark with a wave of her hand. "With everything I've had to deal with lately, I should be plastered every hour of every day."

From his post, the waiter shot her a snide look. "We don't usually serve alcohol this early, ma'am," he called back to their table.

She threw up her arms in outrage. "What would you have me drink then? Water? Do I look like a Tauros to you? Why don't you fill up a trough and feed me some hay while you're at it!"

"Stop making a scene," Gio hissed across the table. If he really was a brat as she so often liked to remind him, it was obvious in that moment where he'd gotten it from.

Rita crossed her arms stubbornly. "Coffee. Black," she uttered flatly to the man, before turning her glare back on Gio. "Is that incognito enough for you?"

Gio let it go, deciding it wasn't worth an argument. He waited for the waiter to scuttle out of hearing range before relaxing his jaw and posture somewhat, easing out a breath. He just wanted to get this over with so he could go home and sleep, maybe wake up to discover the past few days had been nothing but a dumb nightmare.

Across the table, his mother rested her chin against an upturned palm, staring at him as if mildly fascinated. He glanced behind his shoulder to make sure something shiny hadn't caught her eye, then back at her. "What?" he asked once it started to make him uneasy.

"You got older," she observed, in a flat tone and with a shrug of her shoulders. He rolled his eyes, the typical knee-jerk reaction whenever she was present.

"Yeah, that'll happen," he dryly replied after a pause.

"I wouldn't know," she sighed, inspecting her manicured nails. "So, you still seeing that goody-two-shoes in Pallet Town?"

He frowned. "Her name is Delia," he grumbled, absently busying his hands with the silverware on the table, unrolling the napkin holding the utensils. "And yes, I am."

She brought her hand down and met his gaze again, her expression souring. "You should have traded up. Why aren't you with that Ariana? Her mother helped me out of a lot of jams, you know."

He didn't let her comments displace him. "Delia's good for me."

"Yeah, sure," she sniffed. "That's what I thought about your father."

"Whom you cheated on, apparently," he gritted out, teeth clenched and fingers squeezing around his butter knife until it became lodged in a tight fist. She noticed this and rolled her eyes.

"Stow the attitude," she said, primping her luscious hair as if nothing were out of the ordinary. "Your father was already dead at the time. Besides, that whole arrangement was never my idea."

He scowled, curling his lip dangerously again. "So then what Kade said is true. Giuseppe _is_ my half-brother."

Her silence said it all. At once, Gio wanted to ask more. Why? How? With whom?

But he didn't. Something incomprehensible settled at his throat and he banished those inquiries to the rear of his mind, letting them take a backseat to the more pressing matter.

"Why are you here?" he demanded, pouring all of his scorn into the question and letting the knife clatter back to the tabletop. He had no patience left for beating around the bush.

She wet her lips, corners quirking up in a shadow of a smile. "Right to it then," she observed, nodding. "Well in case you're not caught up to speed, Kade has been taken hostage by the crime families."

"And why is this my problem?" he snorted, the question sounding like a broken record at this point. He'd spat it at Kade once already, and now here he was asking it again.

She held up an accusing finger, face pinched. "Because in stubbornly refusing to meet with Giuseppe yourself, you let Kade go in your place."

He shook his head wildly, both in denial and sheer bafflement. Was she serious? "I didn't tell him to do that!"

"Yes, well, it doesn't matter," she sighed with a dismissive flourish of her hand. "All of this is still technically your fault."

" _My_ fault," he bellowed back at her, not so much a question as a stunned, fiery reaction.

She nodded, unbothered. "If you hadn't let Metsuma die, this whole Saffron Mafia debacle would be _his_ problem, not _mine_."

Gio scowled harder, this time feeling his canines digging into the gums of his mouth. "If I hadn't let him die, we would all be in the streets massacring each other like lunatics! Hell, you wouldn't have everything that you have, if not for me!"

She actually had the nerve to laugh at that, just a tiny chuckle that sounded more like a sob than anything. "And nor would you, if not for me! How is my luxurious mansion, by the way? And my Gym?

"Enough!" he hollered, slapping the table so hard and so loud that some of the nearby patrons jumped in their booths. His mother didn't flinch, however, and he took in a few deep breaths to calm his racing nerves and lowered his voice before starting over. "We're arguing for the sake of arguing now, alright? And I'm betting neither of us came here for that. So come out with whatever it is you want from me already."

"It's what I _need_ , not what I _want. And_ what I need is…" She let the sentence hang, and with an instinctive reaction, Gio narrowed his eyes at her—sharply and in question. Her face scrunched up under his scrutiny. "You're really going to make me say it?"

Gio furrowed a brow, slowly connecting the dots. "You need my help," he muttered.

"I—", she started, a snag in her throat. Hurt and shame, both emotions too familiar for him to miss, flashed across her eyes for a single moment before she closed them and forced out in a breath, "Yes, I need your help."

Gio just blinked at her for a moment. He never thought those words would come from her lips, not like this, anyway. He'd thought he'd been dragged here because he was in trouble for failing to meet his quotas and not upholding his end of their bargain. As it turned out, he'd been called here because _she_ was the one in trouble.

"The truth is," she began, slowly, almost unsure as she bit her bottom lip, "this situation with the Saffron Mafia is becoming too big for me to handle on my own."

"I see," Gio murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. He'd imagined and prepared for a much more hostile conversation, and now he had to suddenly switch gears and act like nothing was out of the ordinary.

She held up her palm, so caught up in her own dilemma that she didn't even notice his change in disposition. "And before you say it, yes, I know, I should have done more for Giuseppe when he was growing up. But I didn't think he would turn around and stab his own mother in the back like this!"

Snapping out of his shock and back to the present, Gio worked to wrap his brain around the subject at hand. "What is he, like, thirteen? Fourteen? How could you let a little kid step all over you like this?"

She sighed in lieu of her usual shrug. "Funny, isn't it?" she murmured, deadpan, adding a small, pitiful laugh. "I was kidding myself thinking _you_ were the problem child. In fact, all this time I thought of you as this life-sucking, snot-nosed little leech I could never be rid of."

"And now?" he asked, lifting a brow.

She shrugged. "Now I don't mind it so much."

Gio bit his lip to hide the unbidden smile there. "Gee, thanks."

"You may be a brat, but at least you're loyal," she explained, and Gio couldn't decide if it was a compliment or not. "As for your good-for-nothing half-brother…" The sentence went unfinished, but he could hear the fiery implication in it all the same. "I mean, going against the family? Really? You _never_ go against the family! Isn't that supposed to be the unwritten mob rule or something?"

Gio leaned his head back against the booth and took in a few deep breaths, held them for awhile before blowing out again. "So you think he wants a piece of the family business?"

"He wants to _destroy_ the family business," she corrected flatly, drumming her nails anxiously on the table. "Team Rocket is all that stands between him and the mob's stake in the black market. He won't rest until he's taken over all our traffic. The way he sees it, we moved in on his turf."

Gio thinned his mouth into a grim line. "Why should this be bad news for me? If the Rocket Gang crumbles, that would release me from our contract."

She puffed a sound of amusement. "Giuseppe has seen Team Rocket's success. He knows Pokémon trafficking is the key to dominating the black market. If you think he'd leave your territory alone, you're in for a rude awakening."

Gio wanted to shoot down the claim, but the words stuck in his throat and refused to come out, and he dropped his gaze to his lap. He was mute and lost. The reality, however much he wanted to deny it, was that she was right, for once; Giuseppe would have no soft spot for a half-brother he'd never met. And Kade's imprisonment proved that the young kingpin wasn't the negotiating type. At least with his mother, Gio had some wiggle room.

"Face it," she said. "You're a player in this game, whether you want to be or not. And unfortunately, you're on the losing side, right next to me." She drew in an unsteady breath, which sounded so undeniably painful Gio couldn't help but peek up at her. Her face was written in defeat. Gio wondered if he looked the same.

"There's got to be _some_ way," he said, if just to cut the tension. "Couldn't you send Miyamoto to slip behind enemy lines and bust Kade out?"

She shook her head rigidly, the sad, faraway look in her eyes immovable. "Miyamoto is away on a sensitive, top-secret assignment. I have no idea when or _if_ she'll be back. There hasn't been any word from her in days."

"What assignment?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"I'm not authorized to disclose that."

"But you're the Team Rocket boss."

She arched a brow at him. "Yes? So?"

"So, of course you're allowed to say—" he stopped himself, realizing his efforts were in vain and pushing the heels of his hands to his eyes, hard. "Forget it," he breathed a quiet sigh, offering a grin—strained around the edges—and said, "It doesn't matter. I think I have a clear enough picture anyway. What it all boils down to is—"

"Team Rocket has a death sentence hanging over it," she finished for him. " _That's_ what it comes down to."

He ran his fingers along his cranium as he racked his brain for something to say, taking a small fistful of hair and pulling gently at the roots. "I mean, look at it this way," he huffed, bringing his hand down suddenly and holding up two digits. " _Two_ years. You ran a successful criminal enterprise, unchallenged, for _two whole_ years. You had a good run."

"Oh, don't sugarcoat it," she scoffed, burying her head in her palms. "You can say it: I'm a terrible leader. I'm a failure."

Gio scrubbed a hand over his own face, letting a small groan slip out of him. "Stop. Don't do that."

She peeked up at him past her lashes. "Do what?"

"Beat yourself up," he grumbled, slouching into himself uncomfortably. "It's weird and I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it. I'd rather you just blame it all on me like you usually do."

Some emotion he couldn't place crept to her face then, but it vanished just as the waiter came up to their table with her coffee, making Gio sit up sharply.

"Took long enough," she snorted up at the man, swiping the mug off the table the moment he placed it in front of her. "Where the hell did you go for it? The Alola Region?"

The waiter forced a polite but strained smile. "Sorry, ma'am. Can I get you folks some menus?"

"You know, I think we'll have those drinks after all," Gio huffed, even a slight buzz sounding good right about now. "Just give me your strongest beer."

"Brandy for me," his mother chirped.

The waiter looked like he wanted to protest, but Gio waved him off, and immediately regretted it. His mother's gaze was heavy on him again, supplicating, as if waiting for him to put forth another proposal or suggestion or some morsel of advice to put her mind at ease.

When he just couldn't do that, she exhaled wearily and nursed her mug before setting it down hard, letting some of it splash onto the tabletop. "I didn't come here to mock or threaten you. I didn't even come here to mope, for that matter. I came here—in person, mind you—because I'm…" Her mouth slumped into a deeper frown, eyes falling to the table. "I'm desperate."

Gio opened his mouth with a breath, about to say something but immediately faltering, catching himself—closing down, expression turning blank. He hated himself for pitying her, especially after his nightmare of a childhood and all the bullshit that followed it. But still, he felt responsible for her, on some level. This might have explained why his father had stayed loyal to her right up until the split. He probably would have insisted Gio do the same.

But Gio wasn't sure he was even half as honorable a man as Clint Ketchum. Was he? Could he be? After upsetting Delia? After frightening Tucker?

The waiter returned to their table before long, serving him his beer and pouring his mother's brandy without a word. He left the bottle behind, then amscrayed. Gio took a swig from his glass and immediately wished he'd ordered something stronger. When the tense silence overstayed its welcome, Gio lifted his shoulders only to drop them hard with a sigh. "Half-brother or not, I don't even know Giuseppe," he pointed out. "What would I even say to him if I confronted him?"

She took sip of her brandy before dismissing his question with a flippant hand gesture. "Forget confronting him. That time has passed. He won't listen to reason. He just wants that stupid inheritance he thinks he's owed, along with everything Team Rocket owns. I mean, talk about shallow. It's like he doesn't realize there's more to life than money."

Gio didn't even want to touch that one. So in place of a smarmy pot-meet-kettle comment, he decided to answer seriously. "I don't think this is just about the money, mother," he said, spelling it out for her as maturely as possible. "He wants to rebuild everything that was ripped away from him. He's no different than everyone else Metsuma screwed over. And besides—"

"Did you just call me mother?" she deadpanned, cutting him off. Gio raised a brow, before nodding, reluctantly. She let out a soft stream of laughter. "When did you become so formal?"

He turned his head away sheepishly. "Let's just say the business has taught me a lot."

"I'll drink to that," she chortled softly, toying with the rim of her glass before taking a sip.

Gio centered and narrowed his gaze. "I didn't say I was proud of it."

She shrugged. "Well if _you're_ not, _I_ am."

He wasn't fast enough to school his stunned look into something more acceptable. He eyed her darkly, confusion drawing his brows low and shoulders tight as he asked a cracked, high-pitched, "What?"

For once, her laughter sounded benign. "Don't you get it? Everything you've done for the Rocket Gang these past two years has been…" She stopped herself, her full, red lips hovering thoughtfully over her glass before she recalibrated. "It's just… it's the first time I've ever felt truly proud of you, okay?"

Gio could feel his face heating up, and a billion words bubbled against sealed lips to find a response to that. None. How could he reply to something like that? What the hell was going on? Had she put something in her drink? Was she drunk? Was she just messing with him? Manipulating him? No, she wasn't smart enough for that.

Damn it. She'd meant what she said. She was _actually_ proud of him, and he didn't know whether to feel gratified or outraged. There was a small part of him that wished she'd just laid into him after all, punished him and belittled him like he'd prepared for upon first walking into the bar. Hostility wasn't comfortable, but at least it was familiar.

And then there was another part of him that felt proud in return—a shameful, nagging voice in his ear telling him he was doing right by at least one person.

The smile on her face told him he wasn't doing a good job keeping his thoughts from flooding his expression. She set down her drink and leaned into her elbows again. "So with that, I ask: why spoil a good thing? We finally found something that works for us as mother and son, right? Let's make it count."

He looked down at his folded hands for a moment in thought, then leaned back into the booth as a sharp exhale left him. Probably against his better judgment, he asked, "What's the job?"

There was a stunned pause from her, but it lasted only a few moments before she eagerly dived right into the nitty-gritty. "Nothing's set in stone yet," she explained, lowering her voice. "This deal is still a backdoor one. But I would have you depart for the Sinnoh Region as soon as possible."

His jaw clenched hearing that. "Sinnoh," he puffed, brow quirking.

She nodded. "Some wealthy moneybags there wants to help us out of our rut. I know, it sounds too good to be true. But like I said, I'm desperate."

He wet his lips, focusing. "And what does this anonymous bigshot want in return?"

"That's what I'd be sending you to sort out," she said, smirking. "I get winded by lengthy negotiations, you know how it is. I only know he's asked for our help with something very hush-hush for an extended period of time." She reached for her brandy again. "That said, I would pack a large suitcase if I were you."

He stared past her shoulder, not committing to anything yet. Too many thoughts were crowding in his mind. On one hand, he'd already toyed with the idea of traveling to Sinnoh to find a gateway back to the Distortion World, but that was before nearly tearing up his father's journal and deciding that a life of crime, while wrong, was the only right course to protect his friends. Now it was as if the universe was giving him another shot, a ticket leading right to the man he'd promised to rescue. The man he needed to guide him, or, if nothing else, refill the shoes he himself clearly wasn't fit to wear, and be the Ketchum hero everyone deserved.

But he never imagined if he left Kanto, he would be doing it to save both his father _and_ his mother. If he did agree to help her, what would that mean for him?

"Giovanni," she whispered, the sound of his name on her tongue shocking him out of his daze. "I can't just send a handful of grunts to make this happen. I can't trust them to do the job and do it right. It has to be you."

Gio looked at her for a long, painstaking moment, then lifted his own glass to his lips and downed it. When he set it down, he asked, "What's in it for me?"

Her smirk resurfaced at twice the width. "That's my boy," she giggled, before noting his serious profile and getting back to his question. "If everything turns out well and I have you to thank for it in the end, I will release your gang from its contract. You would no longer have to steal for me. You would no longer be associated with Team Rocket in any way, shape, or form."

Though the offer sounded tempting, Gio didn't like the way her grin grew crooked at that last comment. "And leave Team Rocket with no good incentive not to target Pallet and Viridian?" he snorted.

"That part of our arrangement would remain unchanged," she assured him. "The people would be safe. Your precious Delia would be safe. You could finally settle down with her, build a life together. You could put all of this behind you."

Gio swallowed, his heart thumping wildly, out of blind excitement or nervousness, he couldn't be sure. Her offer seemed too good a thing, so he had to ask, "Am I supposed to take that on faith?"

"You don't have to." She slid a hand into the purse sitting next to her, pulling out her checkbook and flipping it open. "As a show of good faith," she said, clicking her pen, "I'll even front you a generous percentage of the money here and now."

Gio swallowed the breath he didn't know he'd been holding and leaned into the table, noticing the signature on the check. "Lucille Murine," he pronounced the name slowly.

"My birth name," she clarified. "Rita Ketchum may be dead, but let's just say Lucille has some very sizeable offshore accounts in her name."

Gio didn't know if he could locate his voice, so unsure that his lips could even move enough to form anything coherent. After many tries to get something past his teeth, he gave up and decided to close his eyes, taking it all in one moment at a time. The money was irrelevant beyond being a token of good faith; it was everything else that overwhelmed him, the possibilities, the future. If he did this, he would not only be saving his father, but he would be saving Delia and himself and the others from Team Rocket indefinitely. With a stroke of a pen, all his problems would be over. He could quit the business, become the man his father had wanted and Tucker needed, marry Delia, claim back the normalcy he'd started to believe he would never taste again.

Yes. It wasn't too late. It was time for him to pick up the pieces of his life, glue them back together and move forward. No amount of wallowing in self-pity would ever serve to make things right; more like every moment spent wishing things were better or different cut a deeper hole inside him, casting him deeper into the jaws of darkness, of loneliness. He was getting fed up with hating every second of what he was becoming. Sinnoh was the answer. This _assignment_ was the answer. Because even if he didn't find his father, there would still be another light at the end of the tunnel, an exit strategy, a reward waiting to be claimed.

Rita snapped her fingers to yank Gio out of his daydream. "I can write down all sorts of numbers on this check, Giovanni. I just need you to say you'll do this for me."

And Gio caved. His throat burned, but he managed to squeeze out the three words she longed to hear.

"I'll do it."

 **TO BE CONTINUED . . .**

* * *

 **A/N:** Another chapter I wanted to post sooner, but I was in the east coast visiting family for two weeks and then ended up getting sick after I got back. And now that Kingdom Hearts III is out, I haven't been able to put it down, other than for work. It's a wonder I finished this chapter at all, really.

Anyway, this one's a bit on the longer side, and I debated splitting it into two parts, but I think it works better this way in terms of pacing; separately, they just wouldn't move the plot forward that much, and I dislike posting chapters that just feel like they're treading water for the most part. To those not keen on lengthier chapters, I totally get it, but don't worry, I won't make a habit of this. When it does happen on occasion, I suggest just reading in two or three chunks, almost as if they were simply two or three separate chapters. No need to rush.

Also, I just wanted to thank everyone for the feedback and comments, especially to longtime readers. It's encouraging to know there are still people interested and invested in this series after such a long hiatus following Blessed Defiance.

 **Next Chapter** : Gio says his goodbyes as he and his gang prepare to depart for Sinnoh; Tucker rekindles an old friendship; Delia comes to a self-realization in the aftermath of her father's passing; Giuseppe gives Marco an important assignment.


	8. Tried and True

.

.

 **Short Change Hero**

 **Chapter 8: Tried and True**

Gio cursed under his breath as he tore his father's dress shirts out of their decade-old boxes, each article he threw behind him either too small for his neck or too narrow for his chest and arms to earn a spot in his suitcase. The ones that didn't pile up on the floor only barely made the cut, though just looking at them, he could already see himself gasping for breath against their impossibly tight collars. Either Clint Ketchum was a much smaller man than he remembered, or Gio was just too _big._

Damn late growth spurt. He'd always thought he would grow into his father's old clothes, not grow _out_ of them, least of all before he ever got the chance to wear them. He wanted to smack himself for not unboxing them sooner and trying out the fit. It had just never really occurred to him that he would ever have to dress up in fancy duds and act like a real, respectable businessman. He'd always been the one in the shadows, the faceless rider in the night, the errand boy his mother's buyers never even knew existed. And now he and his gang were being plucked out of the trenches and shoved into the front lines for all of the underworld to see.

So be it. He would just have to shop for some new suits in Sinnoh, but for now, the hand-me-downs would do. He couldn't meet with some well-to-do bigshot wearing torn jeans and a leather jacket. Middleman or not, if the idea was to sell Team Rocket as professional, biker getup just wasn't the way to go; it didn't take a fashion fool to figure that out. Ordinarily, he wouldn't care, but he had too much riding on this assignment. There was no room for error.

"Refresh my memory, bossman," Petrel crooned, feet kicked up in front of him as he lounged behind Gio's desk, swabbing his ear with his pinky finger. "Weren't you the one who retched at the idea of joining Team Rocket?"

Shoving another shirt into the suitcase, Gio rose up on his knees and punched the taller man's shoulder. "I'm not joining, idiot. I'm doing a job and then going home. Now get out of my seat, will you?"

Petrel hopped up on his feet, pouting as he rubbed his tender arm. "Why so snippy, bossman? I'm just trying to make sense of all this."

Gio slammed the suitcase closed with a frustrated huff and carried it across the office, setting it near the door. "This is our ticket _out_ of Team Rocket. Once I do this, we can kiss our contract with them goodbye."

"How bittersweet," the taller man yawned, stretching out his body. "Some of us happen to enjoy a little debauchery, you know?" He tilted his head thoughtfully, tapping his whiskered chin. "On the other hand, it'll be nice to finally be our own man again, do things _our_ way like the good old days. No more stiflers bossing us around."

Gio winced hearing that. Bringing Team Righteous back to its roots was at the bottom of his list of motives for going on this trip. Fair business, that was all this was, a favor as impersonal as a handful of dirty change. Of course, he wasn't doing this to get a pat on the back from his mother, or to buy life for Sorhagen, or any of that. He was doing this for his father, and for Delia, and the people actually worth a damn.

"The money doesn't hurt either," Proto chimed in, off of Petrel's comment. The boy was standing in the doorway to the office, cross-armed, giving the cluttered floor an unsavory glance before Petrel's voice brought him back to focus.

"You can't put a price on your passion, Proto," chortled the prankster.

Proto smirked, teal brow furrowing. "Not even eighty million Pokédollars?"

The words gave Petrel pause. Then, in an apparent change of heart, he turned to Gio wearing his best suck-up face. "Did I ever tell you what a fine woman your mother is?"

There it was. Money. The sweetest nectar of all motivators. And Gio was happy to let them lap it up so long as they were willing to get their boots muddy in Sinnoh. He'd already won over Rocco with that same promise of riches, a promise he himself had nearly forgotten about before his little downtown meetup with his mother was even over. To him, the only reward worth reaping was the end of his contract. He didn't care about the money, save for his mother's down payment, which, in truth, he hadn't collected for himself; he'd coaxed her into shelling out proof of her sincerity, but all along, he'd had other plans for that check.

Three lesser members of his gang shuffled into the office then, stopping to look at him. He gave a nod and they quietly began carrying his father's boxes out of the room. Even if their contents didn't fit him, they wouldn't be far out of reach; he'd had most of his father's belongings moved to the Gym for better storage after inheriting the mansion, in fact. If his mother had had her way, they would still be rotting away in the cellar, but he wasn't so heartless—at least, he liked to think that he wasn't.

"Ya need anything else?" one of his cronies asked once the floor was cleared.

Gio shook his head. "No, that'll be all. Go back to your posts."

The three muscle-headed bikers thudded off without a word, and in their blunt hurry, Gio swore he picked up a whiff of bitterness. Apparently the other riders outside his main circle hadn't warmed to the idea of him leaving Team Righteous in the dust once he left Kanto. He would make it up to them when he returned, but until then, Nanu would have to keep them in check.

If he had his way, he would gladly bring his entire gang with him, but his mother had insisted he only enlist his most productive team members. Rocco was already securely in his pocket, but if outrageous wealth somehow still wasn't enough to get Proto and Petrel on board as well, he would be reporting to Sinnoh shorthanded. Not exactly a reassuring first impression.

And of course, there was also—

"Gio!" As if summoned by thought alone, Ariana stormed into the office in a huff. "Gio, I've called all over town and I just cannot find a decent kennel!"

Petrel swooped in and mockingly patted her on the shoulder. "Oh, treat yourself to a hotel!"

Even Gio had to crack a smile at that one.

"I meant for Meowth, you ingrate!" she growled, nailing Petrel's shin with her heel. He yelped and started dancing around on one foot as he clutched the other, yet still smiled that dastardly smile through his pain. Almost as if to say 'worth it.'

Gio broke them up with a snap of his fingers and tossed Ariana a solemn glance. "I'm not leaving Meowth behind."

She stared at him, red brows drawing together and mouth falling open ungracefully. "I... thought you said this was a business trip."

"It is," he answered flatly, delicately. "But if things go south for some reason, better to have my Pokémon on hand."

"'South'?" She croaked the word back at him, eyes widening a fraction. Suddenly she snapped to him, splaying her palms over his chest melodramatically. "Gio, my love, be straight with me! Is this person we're expected to meet with... dangerous?"

Petrel, in no hurry to calm her nerves, answered before Gio could even think up something. "He would have to be to want to strike a deal with Team Rocket."

From the door, Proto gave a cheeky little snort. "Dangerous men don't go poking around the criminal underworld. Stupid men do." His gaze slid to Gio. "No offense."

Gio shrugged it off. "Either way, there's a reason my mother isn't handling this herself."

"And you're okay with being fodder?" Ariana whimpered, phrasing the question in a frustratingly loaded way. "Oh, I just knew this trip was a bad idea! Call the whole thing off, Gio, I beg you!"

He shook his head. "I can't do that."

"Sinnoh is not a good place," she insisted. "It will chew you up and spit you out!"

Petrel hummed over that. "And just how would you know that, Ari?"

"I'm wasn't speaking to you!" she retorted, then refocused on Gio, her voice snapping from knifelike sharpness back to sweet and doting. "Reconsider, won't you, darling? For me?" When she attempted to lean into him, his hands flew to her arms to keep her anchored in place. He retreated behind his desk and slumped back in his chair, wishing he had a cigarette to smoke.

"You can always back out, Ariana," he huffed after a few beats of silence. "I'm not forcing you to come with me." He looked past her sharply, extending his gaze to Petrel and Proto. "I'm not forcing _any_ of you to come with me. But I _am_ expected to bring some muscle with me to Sinnoh, and I'd rather it be people I can trust, people I can depend on."

After a deliberating silence, Petrel stepped toward the desk, grinning wildly again. "I'm not as smart as I like to think I am, so count me in."

Gio smiled slightly, relieved. He looked to the younger man next and furrowed his brow. "Proto?"

The boy chewed at his bottom lip. "Sinnoh, huh?" He sniffed, then said in an apathetic voice, "Sure, could be interesting. Could also be a drag, but hey, life's a mystery box."

Nodding his gratitude, Gio finally turned his eyes front and center. "Last chance, Ari. Are you in or out?"

"Of course I'm in." She walked over to the desk and rested her forearms against the surface, puppy-dog eyes locked with his. "But don't think I'm doing this for the money. I'm doing this for _you_ , Gio. Just how could I put a price on what you and I share together?"

"Eighty million Pokédollars," coughed Petrel.

A pause.

"Okay, scratch that," Ariana said after some thought. "I'm doing this for you _and_ the money."

Gio gave a nod, content enough with that. Just having them with him on this assignment already made him feel much better about it all. They weren't much to look at, but they were the backbone of his little shadow enterprise, each with a unique skill set and credentials to back it up. And as it turned out, his mother wasn't blind to the fact. When all was said and done, they didn't need Team Rocket; it was Team Rocket who needed _them_.

"Break the news to Delia yet?" asked Petrel. The very mention of her name had Gio expelling a long breath through his nostrils, and he hunched into his desk, pursing his lips into a tight line.

"Yeah, a few days ago," he finally mumbled, and left it at that. He imagined the guilt written on his face spoke the rest. Delia had just lost her father, and from what he'd heard, now Sam was leaving town on a teaching job. The last thing he wanted was for Delia to feel like _he_ was abandoning her, too.

Between his obligations as Gym Leader and managing the body shop, he'd found little time to prepare for his mission since his assignment to it a week ago. But now it was hitting him that sorting through ill-fitting clothes and packing a suitcase wasn't even the worst part of all this. He still had to face Delia in person, still had to explain himself to her. And how could he do that when he could barely explain it to himself without it sounding like a fool's errand?

"And Tucker?"

Gio looked up, slow to realize Ariana had uttered the _other_ name that cast guilt over him like a storm cloud. He'd promised the boy he would make an effort to be around for him more often, yet here he was, a day away from leaving town for Legendaries knew how long. This was going to crush him.

"Not yet," he finally said, voice clipped and purposely filtered of emotion. He didn't want them to see his hurt. None of them would understand anyway.

Petrel leaned into Gio's desk beside Ariana, petting the purple fuzz of his chin. "Why not recruit the kid into our elite ranks? Have him tag along with us."

Something dark and angry unfurled within Gio's chest then. He turned his head up sharply, hitting Petrel with a hard glare. "What?"

The taller man flinched at the ice in Gio's voice, and rubbed coyly behind his neck. "Well, you said he's itching to fly the coop, right? I say we give him his wings already."

Gio gritted his teeth, the suggestion setting off an explosion in him. He slapped his hands down on the desk and shot up from his seat. "Are you hearing yourself, you idiot? If he found out about me, about what we do, it would devastate him!"

Petrel slowly backed away from the desk, holding up his palms. "Easy, bossman! I was just brainstorm—"

In white-hot rage, Gio hissed, "I don't ever want to hear you suggest that again, do you hear me?"

Petrel nodded frantically, but Gio's threat hung in the air, leaving a deafening and uncomfortable silence behind. No one dared to speak up. Awareness slowly crept back into Gio then, and he sank back into his chair, averting their gazes out of shame or pride or something else he couldn't peg.

Damn it. The monster had reared its ugly head once more. He hated how he never realized as much until it the damage was already done. Still, he stood by his words, regardless of the frightening place he'd spoken them from. Leaving Tucker behind would hurt the boy, yes, but it would hurt him a lot less than finding out that the one person he looked up to was a liar and a criminal. Gio wouldn't do that to him. He couldn't.

He let out a frustrated breath through his nose before regrouping. "Forget I said anything," he grumbled by way of apology, trying to brush the incident under the rug where it belonged.

Thankfully, Rocco's voice slipped through the smothering quiet and broke the tension in the air. "Customer jist pulled up tae th' Gym. Needs his front axle shaft seen tae."

Gio looked past the trio and eyed his rugged, raven-haired enforcer now filling the office doorway. "Need I remind you we're shutting down business for a while, starting yesterday?"

"Anno." Rocco hooked both thumbs in his pockets, shrugging. "Laddie's nae one of our regulars though. Told him tae bolt, but nae dice. Want me tae skelp him?"

It was a tempting offer; the customer in question sounded like he needed an attitude adjustment. But Gio knew word of that would surely spread, and his business would take a hit for it. He didn't want that negative attention, let alone _any_ attention. The longer he stayed under the town's radar, the more likely his upcoming absence would go unnoticed.

"Have him park at the curb," Gio grudgingly relinquished, pulling himself to his feet. "Then pull his car into the garage out back. I'll take a quick glance at it before I head to Pallet Town."

"Aye," said Rocco, and scurried off.

Gio huffed and beamed at his other three comrades, who were now standing a safe distance from his desk, watching him warily. "Collect your things," he said, trying to push down the irritated bite in his words. "Say your goodbyes. Whatever else you need to do. We leave first thing tomorrow."

* * *

It didn't matter how many times Aurora dodged. The Zoroark came at her again, and again, claws swinging. She put some space between them, eventually back-flipping out of reach. She landed hard, creating a small crater in the otherwise flat, barren landscape. She closed her eyes and began to self-heal.

She traced her enemy's Aura as it moved up to the lip of the hole. The assassin must have thought she didn't notice because it reared its head back, breathing life and shape to a ball of foul energy at the tip of its muzzle. After the projectile grew several sizes, Zoroark set it loose.

By that time, Aurora had already finished recovering. She effortlessly somersaulted above the attack before it could engulf her, and raced up the crater, setting her sights on Zoroark. The menace of a Pokémon grinned at her cleverness and snapped into a defensive fighting stance, claws raised again.

Rather than engage in another tiresome dance of weaving and slashing, however, Aurora charged and fired an Aura Sphere in one fluid reflex. Zoroark, expectantly, didn't react quick enough to flee, and fell to its knees with a howl of a pain when the swiveling ball of blue crashed into its lissome frame.

Check and mate.

Aurora collected herself with a few intakes of breath. Calmly, she approached the injured menace, the guileful trickster. The same monster from both dreams and memories alike. The one that had uprooted her life and the lives of loved ones passed, exposing their weakness to the world, setting off a chain of tragedies that ended up whittling her surrogate family and home down to bones and dust. She could exercise all the restraint she wanted, but those memories would forever be with her, constantly reminding her why she needed to grow stronger.

 _That_ was why she had to relive this fight. Over and over. Not to vent, but to train and better her skills. So that she could go home someday. So that she could prove herself worthy of the title 'Inheritor of the Aura' and protect the kingdom she had left as a meek, little Riolu. By all the Legendaries, she swore Paradise Kingdom would not suffer the same fate as her Seer family. She would lay down her own life before letting that happen.

Zoroark's image flickered before she could make another move, then vanished altogether like a mirage. At first, she assumed it to be the Pokémon's usual illusion gimmick, and half-expected several more Zoroark to come flying out of the woodwork to ambush her; but a change in the elements suggested a glitch in the simulation instead. Wind that shouldn't have been there whipped up at her face, rising from the dirt. She tried to resist, but there was no point. The force had her, yanking her body up in a violent gust and sending her careening through nothingness.

Then it wasn't just nothing anymore. A small, bright circle appeared above her, expanding by the second, sucking her in like a vacuum in space. She yelped, but the force only pulled her faster. Faster to that light until, finally, she burst through the blinding ring. All the air rushed through her lungs.

Blinking her eyes back into focus, she found she was staring up at the illuminated ceiling of the Battle Sims pod. Gasping, she looked across the rest of the simulation chamber. Everything was dark as night, save for the pod's emergency power functions, which meant the main system had been shut off. She wasn't tech-savvy like the rest of the Coalition, but she recognized a system failure when she saw one.

She didn't spend long wondering who the culprit was. She sensed him and turned her head accordingly. Outside the glass window of the chamber stood Lord Brutis, holding the tiny Holos Stone necessary to supply power to the Battle Sims. He dangled it between two gloves fingers, as if to make it obnoxiously obvious he was the one who pulled her out and didn't care how she felt about it.

He didn't afford her the chance to step out and greet him. Rather, he entered the chamber himself, the subtle hop in his step haughty and off-putting. His powerful frame dominated the space, the fabric of his red robes stretching slightly to accommodate him. She wasn't used to seeing him in such a small, confined setting; it made him look like a Golurk and she a Golett by comparison.

"You'll forgive the interruption," he said, the robotic inflection of his voice scrambler betraying the sincerity in the apology. Even so, she joined her paws at the spine and stood up as straight as she could before her superior.

"I was just undergoing a training exercise," she explained.

His hooded head turned curiously on his shoulders, gaze briefly stopping at the machine which he'd plainly seen her step out of, before centering again. "I didn't know your master approved of simulators."

She looked down at her feet. "He doesn't," she murmured.

If there was amusement on his part, he didn't let it show. Instead, he paced a few steps past her. "Not to worry. As it turns out, I'm very good at keeping your secrets."

She frowned. Of course he had to say _that_. Now it was clear why he was here. She decided to play ignorant, however, and turned to regard him.

"What can I do for you, Lord Brutis?" she asked, forcing politeness into the question.

The Red Cloak took his time answering. "I received some new intel regarding the Lustrous Orb."

She narrowed her eyes. Without even using her powers, she understood where this conversation was leading.

"I have reason to believe it has been taken to Sunyshore City—or near it, at least," he continued, phrasing it like a casual report. She wasn't fooled.

"Have you told anyone of this?" she asked, even though she already suspected the answer.

"I am telling you at this very moment." So clever and careful he was he in his responses. Regardless, she held her snout high.

"Why me?"

"Why _you_?" He stepped closer to her, looking down at her from darkness. " _You_ lost the orb. I took responsibility for _your_ blunder. Now _you_ owe a debt to me. What other reasons matter?"

She offered a slow but cautious nod. "And if I should fail?"

"I wouldn't dwell on that." The answer was quick and firm, yet lurking beneath it was a distinct note of menace. That didn't stop her from dropping her head in a compliant bow; she would do her duty, especially if meant getting him off her case once and for all.

"I will leave at once," she obliged stiffly. When she straightened, she flailed out her paw in front of her. "If you'd please?"

It took him a moment to register her action, but once he did, he brought up the Ignicite crystal he'd lifted from the chamber's main component. He didn't hand it back to her immediately, instead letting his unseen gaze sweep over the system's archaic control panel. "You had this Battle Sim customized, didn't you?"

She wisely kept silent.

The faintest of smirks crept into his otherwise synthetic voice. "Reliving old wounds?"

She swallowed. "It wouldn't be of interest to you."

"Doubtful," he said, turning the stone slowly in his fingers. "I'm sure you have many interesting stories. Pledged to Paradise Kingdom. Then pledged to an Orre Region slaver. Then pledged to a Seer. And now to the Coalition. It must be exciting to flit from one faction to the next, pledging loyalty to whomever you fancy—that is, until a better alternative comes along."

The implication in his words was clear, and she didn't hide her frown this time. "I would never double-cross the Coalition."

"Then explain the missing orb."

She crossed her arms. "With due respect, you're confusing disloyalty with dissent."

"Am I? Please distinguish them for me." He was mocking her now, tooling with her.

"As I told you, I am a peacekeeper, not a murderer." For a flickering moment, she forgot she was defending her handling of the Blue Cloak and not of Jax.

"You were prepared to murder that Zoroark," he calmly pointed out in rebuttal. "For a peacekeeper, you're off to a poor start."

She shook her head. "That was different. My people were being slaughtered. I was left with no choice."

He tilted his head inquisitively. "So, it _was_ an old wound then."

She tried to reply but it stuck in her throat—or mind, rather. Neither of them moved or spoke for a long, painful moment.

"Disloyalty isn't your vice then," he inferred from her guilty silence. "It's _hesitation_. One might say that's worse."

A tired breath left her. "If I must take one life to protect another, so be it," she admitted softly. "But the impostor in blue that stole the orb was retreating, not attacking. And _that_ is the only reason I did not eliminate him when I had the chance."

He didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, jutting his hand out to return the Holos Stone, he responded ominously, "Perhaps you'll wisen up when that chance comes again."

She accepted the stone reluctantly, and he stepped around her to take his leave. Something inside her wasn't prepared to leave things like that, though, and she spun to him. Before she could think better of it, the question flew out of her.

"What do the White Cloaks truly want with the orbs?"

The Red Cloak froze at the abrupt question but didn't turn to face her.

"Are they to be tools of war?" She'd forgotten herself, speaking to the Coalition's Grand Secretariat in such a manner. Part of her didn't care if he chewed her out for it though. If conflict was truly coming to the Under and Sinnoh Regions as the Grandmaster predicted, she needed to be ready. Her _kingdom_ needed to be ready.

"You have your orders," he uttered simply after a lengthy silence, and then continued on his way.

Aurora inspected the lucid stone in her paw, wondering if it was time for a different training regimen. Evil took many forms, after all. Once, she thought the Coalition to be the perfect refuge for her to complete her training, but it was becoming harder to tell friends from foes anymore. These people were supposed to be Aura Guardians like her. They were supposed to stand for peace and justice and humanity. Where had that humanity gone? Why were these so-called champions of light so steeped in darkness, terrorizing and massacring over a silly sphere?

And now war was on the horizon, making matters worse; she would have to choose a side if she failed to keep the peace. Doubtless, her loyalty would be called into question again if she hesitated to serve the Coalition's ends. Even if she stood with them against whoever they imagined their enemies were, war was still war. People would die. She couldn't save them all as she'd saved Jax.

War had destroyed her last family, opened her eyes to the harsh reality that she wasn't ready to return home and serve as any kind of guardian. But she was stronger now, more experienced. Maybe _this_ was her final test, in some way. Maybe all along her time in the Under Region had been more of a cleverly disguised obstacle than a refueling period, and maybe now it was reaching its final destination.

* * *

Gio reclined flat against the creeper cart to catch his breath. He rubbed his forehead with a gloved hand, leaving a smear of motor oil behind on his pale skin. Legendaries, he hated working on beaters. They demanded so much upkeep, and for what? He could pour his blood and sweat into the things, get them purring, but they would still just be scrap on wheels. Cars just weren't like Pokémon; a tumbledown clunker wasn't going to magically transform into a shiny sports coup because of a little extra labor.

It was hard to be picky though. At the end of the day, he was just grateful the shop got any business at all, even if his usual clientele weren't any more proud to be owning their rides than he was to be patching them up. Half the time he never even had to look at the pieces of junk because he would be lounging inside, battering Gym challengers from the comfort of his box seat while Rocco and Petrel did all the legwork in the garage. Not today though.

All in all, he couldn't complain. Having to slip underneath an old convertible every once in a while to patch up a leak or reinstall a part wasn't going to kill him. He'd taken the time to learn this trade, so why not put it to use on occasion? It made things more convincing on the surface anyway. Better to have that humble reputation lingering in people's memories once he left for Sinnoh; that way no one would think twice about his abrupt 'business retreat'. At least, that's what he was _officially_ calling it whenever customers and challengers asked about his upcoming leave of absence.

Angling his flashlight above him, he squinted up into the illuminated interior and frowned. "Waste of time," he muttered under his breath. He'd thoroughly inspected both of the front axle shafts, so thoroughly, in fact, that he had rust crusting into his eyes from all the damn fiddling his hands. But nothing looked bent or loose. A paranoid driver with hearing loss was starting to sound like a valid culprit right about now.

Still, he wondered if he'd missed something. Maybe he needed to prop the Beetle up higher and get in deeper. He reached his right arm out from underneath the car, feeling around for his tools before remembering he'd set them down on the workbench. He called for Meowth, hoping the Pokémon might hear him from inside the Gym. No such luck.

He was about to wheel himself forward and get it himself when he heard footsteps squeaking along the damp floors of the garage. He cast his gaze down toward his feet and saw boots that looked like Rocco's patter past the car. "Nice of you to drop in," he muttered. "As long as you're not being productive, hand me a pry bar from the toolbox, would you?"

But the boots didn't shift toward the workbench, instead pacing off in another direction.

Growling, Gio pushed off the car and rolled himself out from underneath it, the wheels of the creeper squeaking loudly with the movement. He sat up sharply and wiped his hands with a shop rag. "What, is this payback or something? I'm not in the mood..."

The sentence died on his tongue when he realized he wasn't addressing Rocco. The stranger stood with his back straight and turned away from view. He was thin, well-dressed, young by the looks, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Hell, maybe younger. It was impossible to know for sure from just the back.

As the intruder began to pace deeper into the shop, Gio shot to his feet. "Whoa, hey, no trespassing!"

The man stopped at his voice but didn't turn around, didn't even seem to notice Gio. His hands joined together neatly behind his back and his head turned slowly on a narrow but perfectly straight set of shoulders, taking in the shop's dark, dank atmosphere. Gio stared quizzically at the back of his head, at the short, teal hair that stood out starkly against flawless pale skin.

So familiar.

"This garage is off limits to customers," Gio said with a bite of anger. He kicked the creeper to the corner wall to punctuate the point, to remind the other he was still very much there and in no mood to be tangled with.

The trespasser barely flinched. "Why? Is there something I'm not supposed to see?"

That voice—it was so lilting and soft-spoken, yet sharp-tongued. Where had Gio heard it before? Shrugging off the question, he glanced at the Volkswagen Beetle rusting away behind him, then at the stranger again. "So this is _your_ ride," he inferred, and didn't bother to dull the edge to his voice.

"Not when I found it, no," the other quipped in a half-riddle. "But I needed to get a peek behind the curtain _somehow_."

Gio scowled, unamused. "How did you get past my guy without him spotting you?"

"Because Rocco never spotted me." The man's voice sounded like a slap with each uttered sentence—raw and close in the silence. And damn it, so, so familiar. "Either he's not a very good bodyguard or you're not paying him enough."

"If you're looking for trouble, you're about to wish you hadn't," Gio threatened in a low growl. He rolled the sleeves of his tee-shirt back up over his shoulders and grabbed a nearby wrench, balling his fist tight around it.

Finally, the man twisted around. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

Gio squinted at the face, all the fight and bluster going out of him at once. Those studious green eyes and long, dark lashes. That sharp, narrow face. Thin lips trapped in a playful, whimsical smirk.

"Archer?"

That disarming grin widened. "I go by Apollo these days," he said, sticking out his hand for a formal handshake. "It's good to see you again, Giovanni."

Gio didn't even think about it, his feet moving on instinct. The wrench in his hand clattered somewhere on the floor as he rushed to his childhood friend and threw his arms around him in a hug. The contact startled Archer at first, but Gio didn't dwell on it. While he wasn't usually the hugging, sentimental type himself, a simple handshake just wasn't going to sum up how much he'd missed his old comrade. _Eight years_. Eight whole years without meeting in the flesh. This was overdue. Even if Archer was with Team Rocket now, Gio didn't care. They had grown up together, went to school together, helped each other cope with their respective miserable childhoods together. If a bond like that couldn't stand the test of time or loyalty, Gio wasn't sure what could.

He slapped the smaller man hard on the back as he squeezed him tighter. "You should have said something sooner, you bastard! I was about to break your kneecaps!"

"Well now you're about to break my ribs," the other gasped against Gio's bone-crushing weight. Laughing, Gio released his grip on his friend and stepped back, taking in just how grown the other looked. It was odd, he thought, not only that this once-tiny boy, who had always been so clumsy and twitchy back in grade school, now stood before him with such cool, professional grace, wearing a dress shirt, slacks, and suspenders—odd that he seemed so put together, so matured and filled out even though he still looked so young in the face.

Then Gio suddenly became aware of himself, realizing he must have looked like he'd crawled out of a ditch or a gutter. He tried rubbing the oil flecks from his face only to end up smearing it some more when he saw the black of his work gloves. Looking down, his clothes were no different, his white tee-shirt smudged with grease, some of which he now realized had smeared onto Archer during their embrace. Some first impression.

Before he could apologize, Meowth strutted into the garage from the Gym's backdoor entrance, cutting the tension. Just like the lazybones to take his sweet time showing up almost ten minutes after being called upon; it wasn't exactly a good look for a tried and tested Pokémon Trainer, and Gio wondered if Archer was having a good laugh on the inside.

But the teal-haired man showed no interest in mockery, instead dropping down on one knee to better inspect the Pokémon, fascination crossing his features. "Is this the famous Meowth I've heard so much about?"

"Meerrow," purred the Pokémon, warming up to Archer as if he'd known him as long as Gio.

Archer chuckled. "I suppose I have you to thank for this man being alive," he said to the feline, before turning his eyes up at Gio. "You two have seen some ordeals over the years, from what I hear."

Gio nodded, rubbing his aching forehead with his wrist. "That's putting it mildly."

The younger man rose to his feet, his friendly smile softening his rich green eyes as they locked with Gio's. "When they told me you'd perished, I refused to believe it. But even so, it fills me with relief to see you again with my own eyes. It's been ages."

"Ages," Gio chuckled the word, gesturing, "and yet you've barely aged at all."

Archer ran a finger down his own cheek, a sort of self-conscious reflex Gio would have expected from the old Archer. "Yes, you always did like to call attention to my baby face. My folks thought I might grow out of it. Seems they were wrong."

Gio pulled a corner of his lip in as he sighed. "Count yourself lucky. If the years had been even half as kind to me as they have been to you…"

Archer nodded and cocked his head to one side, frowning. "Yes, you seem... tired."

"Yeah, well." Gio leaned back against the hood of the beater and rubbed at the bags under his eyes. "I've had a lot on my plate."

"More than necessary, I'd say," the other replied, worrying his lower lip a bit. Neither pity nor condescension colored his tone though. There was admiration and respect driving every word that came out of him. Just like when he was a small, frail boy who only had one friend to lean on.

Still, Gio waved off his concern. "Enough about me. What about you? Last I heard from you, you were still just a field agent."

Archer gave a half-nod. "I still am, technically. A new title and a few more perks hardly make a distinction."

"Elite Agent, then," guessed Gio.

"Soon, I hope," the other answered idly, all the while still absently gazing around the garage. "But for now, commando. Your mother bumped me from Class B to Class A."

"Congratulations," Gio uttered reactively, politely, even if the enthusiasm wasn't all that sincere. He couldn't help it. Having a friend whom he loved belong to a group he loathed was something of a bittersweet situation.

Archer turned a smile on him. "To you as well," he said. "They tell me you're a Gym Leader now. Impressive."

Gio blushed against his will, nodding sheepishly. Legendaries, being around Archer really did bring out the awkward, goofy kid in him again. He wondered if the feeling was mutual.

"It was always a dream of yours," the other continued. "And I never doubted you would become a strong, capable Pokémon Trainer. Even when we were kids in school, you were a force to be reckoned with."

Gio chuckled and coyly rubbed the back of his neck. "Come on, I didn't have any Pokémon back then."

Archer raised a brow, looking briefly impressed by his modesty. "You didn't need them," he argued calmly. "You were heads taller than me, if you remember. You were heads taller than most of the kids in both your grade and mine, actually."

Gio shook his head. "Hardly."

"You were smarter, too."

"Barely."

"And above all else, you were tougher," Archer went on, as if Gio hadn't tried to undercut the plaudits. "How many times was I accosted by the older children for my scrawny appearance or my effeminate features? How many times did they threaten to have me shoved in a locker or pelted with Pidgey droppings?"

Gio bit his lip to keep from smiling. "I lost count, honestly."

"And how many times did they actually follow through with those threats?" asked Archer. Gio sighed heavily, the wide breadth of his shoulders expanding and then contracting.

"None."

The smaller man smirked. "None while you were around, that is. You were the only one who stood up for me. You were the only one who kept them in line. You commanded respect and authority, even as a boy. You still do now. And you will again after we depart for Sinnoh."

Gio blinked at him. "' _We_ '?"

Archer snapped into a military stance then, back straight and chin elevated. "I am yours to command. Always have been. Always will be."

" _You're_ coming?"

"I've been charged with overseeing the operation."

Gio folded his arms over his chest, casting his friend a dubious look. "I thought your post was in the Sevii Islands. That's where they station all the promising up-and-comers, isn't it?"

"It is," the other ceded. "But I was reassigned."

Gio narrowed his eyes, seeing through the lie. "You mean you volunteered."

Archer smiled crookedly, a resigned slump in his shoulders. "I thought you might prefer _my_ presence to Agent Zephyr's."

"Archer," Gio sighed, shaking his head. "You didn't have to do this. If you'd stayed on the islands, you would have been well on your way to a promotion. Where I'm going, there's no guarantee of a return investment."

The younger man didn't even flinch. "I place my loyalties before my career."

"It might not be safe for—"

"Still trying to protect me after all these years?" Voice taking on a familiar note of humor, Archer joined his hands behind his back again, cheek starting to pull into another grin. "Do you really think I made it this far without ever brushing with danger?"

Gio frowned, still not quite sure about this. He'd said it to the others already; whatever dangers and challenges were waiting for them in Sinnoh weren't of the ordinary variety. Otherwise, his mother would have sent any of her lackeys.

As if sensing his friend's reservations, Archer shut the gap between them, planting a hand on Gio's shoulder and adopting a more serious tone. "I wasn't there for you in your struggle against Torino. But I can be here for you now. Let me fight for you as you once fought for me. Let me repay my debt."

Gio pressed his lips together, indecisive still, until he noted the glint alight in the other's eye. Through a close-lipped smile, he muttered, "Must I call you Apollo?

Archer laughed. "For you, I'll make an exception."

Finally, Gio nodded, exhaling. "So, will I be answering to _you_ then?"

"You weren't paying attention," the other man said. "Your mother chose _you_ to helm this mission and represent Team Rocket's interests. My presence is strictly supplementary. Should you require Team Rocket's immediate support, I will be there to provide it."

Gio sucked in his lips and exchanged looks with Meowth while he considered that, then refocused on Archer. "I have my own personal reasons for going to Sinnoh anyway, so you won't have to trouble yourself too much."

"As you say," said Archer, with a cool smile that let Gio know his intentions had been noted. "But you could never trouble me. I trust and value your instincts far more than I do your mother's or any of my superiors'. As I said, I am yours to command. Ask anything of me and I will deliver."

Gio let out a shallow breath, then reached down to pick up the neglected wrench off the floor and return it to his toolbox. "For starters, you can fill me in on this shadowy mogul offering to help Team Rocket."

"I know nothing of this person other than that we're scheduled to meet with him in Sunyshore City in three days time," the other man supplied. "I've already dispatched a team to establish a base camp there. It won't be a permanent foothold, but it should suffice as a suitable site for whatever operations we'll be conducting. Your mother has commanded me to keep her updated regularly on all and any developments."

Gio grunted and looked down, yanking off his oil-soaked gloves and throwing them down on the workbench. "Of course she has."

"I trust you've assembled a team of your own?"

Gio nodded, turning back around to face Archer. "My gang."

"All of it?"

"Rocco, Proton, Petrel…" Gio hesitated to cap off the list, clearing his throat into his fist first. "... and Ariana."

Archer's teal brow furrowed. "Ariana?"

Gio nodded slowly, knowing it was a touchy subject but trying not to draw attention to the fact. The two apparently had a history, if it could even be called that.

"Interesting," was all Archer replied with, bobbing his head thoughtfully at the news. Gio just knew Ariana wasn't likely to react as diplomatically though.

"The rest of my gang I've ordered to stay here and keep an eye on things." A muscle twitched in Gio's jaw before he continued. "I figure if I need any more brawn—"

Archer held up his palm. "Say no more. My Rocket grunts are at your beck and call—for whatever good they'll do you, that is."

Gio smiled in appreciation, but Delia and other loose ends suddenly flooded his thoughts, and he huffed irritably as he picked up the shop rag behind him to finish wiping down his hands. "I just need the afternoon to say goodbye to some people in Pallet and—"

Archer's hand flew up again, letting Gio know he didn't have to explain himself. "Do what you need to do, so long as you keep to the schedule and report to Vermilion City on time."

"Vermilion?" Gio glanced toward Meowth, chuckling as memories of Surge and Krabby and poached badges suddenly popped into his head. "Damn. Been years since I was there last."

"Well, you can tell me all about your adventures when we depart. A vessel will arrive at the port there at precisely noon tomorrow to collect your party." Archer stepped toward the stolen Beetle and leaned back against its ramshackle frame, posture casual. His eyes, however, were trained on Diamond Dust sitting beneath its tarp on the far end of the garage. "It will have ample enough space to ferry your motorcycles and any other equipment you might require during your stay in Sinnoh."

Gio lifted a brow. "Vessel? As in, a bulk carrier? Cruise liner?"

Archer shook his head. "Too much risk attached. We'll be taking a freighter ship. Less conspicuous."

"Smart."

"You can't miss it," Archer assured. "Just look for the 'Lucky Karps' logo imprinted on the hull."

"'Lucky Karps'," Gio enunciated slowly, scrunching up his face in the process. He wasn't even aware of his own reaction until Archer let slip a laugh.

"It's a seafood company," Archer briefed, stifling his laughter and pushing off the car to pace circles around Gio. "We have something of an understanding with them. They'll occasionally import and export goods for us in exchange for a generous profit. Rest assured, their discretion is absolute."

Gio looked at his friend for a moment, so cocksure and suave in his mannerisms, and snorted a laugh. "You have it all figured out, don't you?"

"I learned from the best." Archer elevated his chin, indicating Gio's latest handiwork beside them. "I can remember a time when you fixed my bicycle chain for me. Now here you are fixing up my car."

"That reminds me," Gio fished the keys for the Beetle out of his pants pocket and tossed them to his friend. "Can't fix what was never broken."

Archer jutted his hand forward, snatching them out of the air with ease. "Well, feel free to charge me for your time anyway."

Gio shook his head. "This one's on the house. But next time you want to see me, just ask."

"Noted." Archer twisted his body in a full circle, giving the shop a final, lauding glance. "Mechanic. Gym Leader. Business owner." He sighed. "It's always the talented ones that get dealt the short hand in life while the incompetent reap the rewards."

Gio's jaw was tight, and he looked away for a moment. When he met Archer's gaze again, it was with staunch conviction. "My mother can keep what she has. I'll pave my own way."

"How humble you've become," the other remarked, his words laced with subtle humor. Gio spared a moment to wonder if he were secretly mocking him, even if playfully. Then he decided to share his own wisdom.

"The higher you reach, the further you fall when you fail," he said. "It happened to Metsuma and now it's happening to my mother. I'm not looking to follow them down that slope."

Archer seemed to measure that statement for a moment, eyebrow quirked, head nodding but not necessarily in agreement. Then, just as quickly, he snapped free of his daze. "I have another gift for you," he said, tossing the keys back. Gio scrambled to catch them and stared gobsmacked at Archer. The other man brought up a finger, pointing past Gio. "In the trunk of the car, you'll find a small stockpile of supplies and gear we've prepared specially for your mission. Among them are some Pokémon imported from the Sinnoh Region."

Gio beamed over his shoulder, then at Archer again, trying not to look too impressed. "So this hunk of junk has a purpose after all, huh?"

He nodded. "It's important you immediately blend into your environment upon arrival, so vesting yourselves with Pokémon native to said environment will help a great deal in this respect. Dispense them among your comrades however you please."

Gio closed his fist around the keys before stuffing them back in his pocket. "Seems like we have our work cut out for us," he joked dryly.

Archer offered up a soft smile in response. "I look forward to catching up with you some more, Giovanni," he said, shifting back to a formal tone as he rolled up his sleeve and tapped at his watch. "Unfortunately, I must report back to HQ."

Gio nodded, understanding, before bringing up his hand in a half-mocking salute. "As you were, Agent Apollo."

Archer returned the salute posthaste. "It will be an honor to work alongside you."

Gio chuckled and stepped aside, letting his friend pass. The Rocket commando calmly cut a path around the vehicle and out of the garage, departing just as casually and curiously as he arrived, leaving behind the spark of a renewed alliance. They had played make-believe as children, imagining up the sorts of dangers and adventures they both ended up facing as teenagers on two separate fronts.

And now the Legendaries or destiny or some cosmic force out there had brought them back together as young adults, throwing them into the jaws of the unknown. He didn't know what role Archer might play in helping him save his father, but it was a comfort to know he had at least one more sturdy support to hang on to through the coming storms.

* * *

Delia watched in silence as everyone walked by the closed casket at the front of the church, brushing the wood with their fingertips and etching the Trine of the Alpha out of religious respect, before shuffling out of view. When Delia's turn came, it was surreal, her father lying deceased inches apart from her. Yet as soon as she walked away, the sensation vanished

The tearful eulogies flew by, as did the pastor's final psalm. She didn't remember time was still flowing until she felt her mother get up from the bench in tears. The organ music, the mourners, everything vanished in what felt like a blink, narrowed down to nothing but Delia sitting quiet and alone before her father's burial box.

She couldn't bring herself to leave yet. She was mourning more than just her father. She had known the moment she saw him draw his last breath that life was very much too short, and perhaps even more tragically, that she might outlive her entire family. She'd watched her brother pass away, then her father; and her poor, overworked mother only had so much fight left in her. What would she have left in her life then? Family had always been her center, especially nowadays—everyone else, despite how much she loved them all, had circled her like planets around the sun, becoming more distant on each pass. Even Gio. Gosh, would she become like _him_? Resigned to a reclusive life in the shadows, closed off from the world?

"Want some company?"

Delia blinked away the unpleasant thoughts, turning her head to place the voice. Sam was coming up the aisle, smiling that friendly, gentle smile of his and looking almost unrecognizable wearing his black suit. He must have blended into the other mourners so well that she hadn't noticed him earlier; she couldn't truly remember a time in recent memory she hadn't seen him without a lab coat on.

Returning the smile, she nodded at his offer, and he sat down next to her.

"It was a lovely ceremony," he noted aloud after a respectful silence.

"I thought so too," she uttered softly, nodding. "It was good of you to come, Sam."

"Of course. Your father was a good man. And you're my friend, Delia." He cleared his throat into his fist. "I should apologize for Tucker's absence, however. Churches make him uneasy. They remind him of… well, you know."

"Right, of course," she said, and turned her head just in time to see the dull hurt flicker across his face. An old wound. Picked at whenever it looked to be healing. "I guess it can't be easy for you either."

Sam's face crinkled in a sad smile. "Oh, it gets a bit easier. Believe me. I've been down this road enough times to know. With my own father. Then with Hayley. The hole never fades, but thankfully, neither do the good memories." He reached out and covered her hand with his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Should you ever need someone to talk to, however, then I—"

"You're sweet, Sam," she said, smiling back at him, before turning her head forward to look upon the casket once more. "But to be perfectly honest, I'm not upset that he's gone. If anything, I'm relieved. He was suffering, and now he can be at rest."

"Then what is it?" he asked.

Crossing her arms over her black dress, Delia frowned. "He... wanted me to break free from here, to go out and live my life to the fullest," she explained, laboring to admit as much without calling back those unpleasant thoughts from a minute ago. "He kept telling me as much the worse he became. But I don't know if I can, or if I even know _how_. I just... don't feel like I have a future or a calling."

Sam let out a small hum in response, attentive but gazing forward. Delia swallowed past a lump lodged squarely in her throat.

"This will sound odd, maybe even shallow," she began tentatively, looking elsewhere to hide her embarrassment, "but I feel like things were simpler when we were all so young and adventurous, swashbuckling around and fighting danger at every corner. I never thought I'd miss those days, but I do. We were all so close back then, Sam, remember?"

"I do," he replied, the smile in his voice reassuring, bringing her gaze back up. "And _now_?"

She let out a sigh that hurt. " _Now_ we're all grown up, so fragmented and distant from each other, drowning in responsibilities. And now life is a struggle in a different kind of way, a worse kind of way." Hearing herself out loud, she put a hand over her cheek and let out a self-effacing laugh. "I must sound crazy. Ungrateful, even."

He shook his head and smiled at her again, his eyes bright. "No, not at all. You felt like you had a purpose then."

She nodded, slow and hesitant, before casting her gaze up to the faces on the stained-glass windows overhead. "So, what's my purpose now besides putting food on the table?" For a second, she forgot she was speaking to Sam and not some divine set of ears. "Ever since Gio moved to Viridian City and Spencer left for college, I feel like I've been in limbo. These past few years I've been working myself so hard that I never really stopped to think about the future. The only thing I could ever wrap my brain around was helping my mother look after my father, but now that he's gone, what's left for me? A dead-end job waitressing at a diner?"

"You have Gio."

The name snapped her back to focus, filling her with a fluttering sensation. And it was like she was a teenager again.

Until she remembered what that name meant to her now; chest suddenly tight, she looked away again. "I don't even know where I stand with Gio anymore, Sam," she murmured. "He doesn't let me in. And now that he's going away to Sinnoh, I can't just sit around and wait for him to decide if we have a future together or not." It took tremendous effort to say the words out loud, because doing so suddenly made it so real and painful for her, and that wasn't even the most terrifying reality that needed admitting to.

After a thoughtful moment, she pressed on. "I think… it's time I took charge of my life. I can't let others run it for me anymore. I want to find a new purpose, something to shoot for and be proud of. Something to call my own."

"But you don't know where to begin," Sam posited, like a scientist making a hypothesis.

She pursed her lips. "Well, I _had_ a thought, but…" Before she could finish, she shook her head, laughing it off. "No, it's silly."

"Tell me."

Her throat bobbed. "Nursing."

His brows shot up. "Oh?"

Nodding, she twiddled her thumbs coyly in her lap, her voice suddenly smaller than she would have liked. "I just… like taking care of people. Pokémon, too. I feel like I can make a real difference."

"Yes, you always did have a strong nurturing side," he pointed out, stroking his chin fondly. "Faith, wherever she might be, would attest to that, if she could speak. And I can also recall several times during our travels together when Gio and I fell sick or injured, and you were always there to tend to us when there wasn't a hospital for miles."

She smiled weakly at him in spite of herself. "Yeah, I guess it _was_ always there. I don't think it really hit me, though, until my father became sick."

They sat in silence, each lost in thought for a few minutes. Sam spoke again first. "I have a thought of my own."

She knitted her brows, searching his expression as it lit up.

"When I leave for Celadon City in a few days, why don't you join me?" he offered.

She flinched. "Wh—What?"

He shrugged. "Well, I'll be teaching at the university there, as you know. I'm sure there are some excellent nursing programs we could look into for you."

Biting her lip, she studied his gaze, to determine if he was serious, then shifted anxiously when she realized he very much was. "I don't know," she murmured shyly, looking down at her joined hands again. "I mean, it's sweet of you to offer, but… I just don't know."

"Delia," he said, his warm hand settling on her arm. "If this is a dream of yours, you should pursue it, even if the odds seem stacked against you. I speak from experience."

Her thoughts were spinning round and round in her head, hopeful and doubtful all at once. "I don't know if that's possible or even realistic, Sam," she uttered once she found her voice. "I want to do something more with my life, of course, but I couldn't just abandon my mother and leave her buried in expenses and obligations and—no, I just couldn't do that to her. The cost of this funeral alone is going to set us back. And we still haven't finished paying off my father's medical bills."

"Suppose all of that was taken care of," said the young professor promptly. "Would you be ready and willing to pack a suitcase and make this leap at a moment's notice?"

"Well, I…" It was a trap to see what other excuses she could make for herself, and, of course, when she could find none, she gave up with a huff.

Sam rose to his feet to leave. He bent down, placing a benevolent kiss on her forehead before leaning back enough to meet her eyes a final time. "You have to do what you feel is right, Delia. Just know that whatever choice you make, you _will_ persevere. You're one of the strongest people I've ever known."

Delia shut her eyes, praying for her own sake that he was right about that. If only _wishing_ were enough.

* * *

Marco swept into Giuseppe's suite without knocking, mouth dry, stomach lurching. The kingpin was standing entranced in front of that damn burning brazier again, Rue practically glued to his side, muttering something or another into his ear as she so often did. The fire illuminated her yellow and crimson fur, giving her the look and shape of a living flame.

Seeing this, Marco stopped and scowled so hard the bridge of his nose ached. _She_ was to blame. If Sorhagen was to be ruthlessly pumped full of lead as the recent swirl of rumors suggested, it would be on _her_ orders, not Giuseppe's. Marco had tried giving her the benefit of the doubt when she first arrived, but that was as lost a cause now as his own self-restraint.

"Is it true?" he demanded without greeting, his hoarse voice cutting down the thick, ominous silence. "What the other bosses are saying?"

Rue spun to him first, leering at him with those haunting red eyes that threatened to set him ablaze where he stood. Her telepathic voice came thudding down on his mind like a hammer on an anvil. "You should have the decency to kneel before your liege when you address him."

Marco stepped toward Giuseppe, ignoring her. "Are the rumors true? You're going to off Sorhagen? After we just promised no harm would come to him?"

The kingpin pivoted from the fire and shot out his hand, wagging a folded letter between two pinched fingers. "You're a literary man now, so read up," he muttered, voice clipped.

Marco reluctantly reached out and took the letter. Unfolding it, he dragged his squinting eyes over each word carefully, sounding them out under his breath. He was better and faster at reading print, but handwritten sentences were still a mountain his optics and brain had to work together to scale. He hoped to improve before he hit seventeen.

He was barely halfway through the first paragraph when Giuseppe snatched the letter back, impatient. "It's from my mother," he sputtered, tossing the parchment into the brazier. "She requests that I permit her more time to pay her debts."

Marco swallowed. "How much time?"

"Months. Potentially longer."

"Well, it's _something_ , isn't it?"

The young mob boss grimaced, the brown of his eyes clouding into something stormy. "Except the letter neglected to mention her secret rendezvous with her _other_ son."

Marco casted his head low, thinking that over. Giovanni. He'd heard that name mentioned once or twice in the past. The man apparently shared blood with Giuseppe, but that alone shouldn't have made him a person of interest. Marco knew as well as anyone else in the mob that the easiest way to land on Giuseppe's radar was to _seriously_ piss him off. And Giovanni was innocent of that, as far as Marco knew.

"One of our lookouts stationed in Viridian City reports that Madame Boss stepped out from the shadows to attend such a meeting," Giuseppe continued, expression darkening. "If this is a misdirection meant to cover up some kind of conspiracy against me, I'm not going to stand for it."

"Conspiracy?" Marco made a sound like he was about to choke, playing it off with a humorless laugh when he realized such a stupid idea could only be planted. So he spun to Rue, the preacher of stupid ideas. "Is this your job now?" he asked her with a harsh bite he couldn't rein in any longer. "To come up with dumb, wild theories and present them as hard facts?"

She said nothing, only smiled that wicked smile, getting a good laugh at seeing him so worked up. And that just made him _more_ worked up. He'd never known he could feel such contempt for another until she'd barged into their lives, spouting her theistic garbage and corrupting an intelligent, capable leader into doubting and distrusting everyone and everything around him. Marco had nothing against religion, but when it bordered on cult-status and brainwashing, it made him feel like the smartest man in the room by default.

"I had my lookout tail Giovanni in the days since his meeting with my mother," Giuseppe explained before Marco could go off on the Pokémon again. Marco glanced up at his friend, not missing the slight tightening in the space between his eyebrows.

"So? What of it?"

"It seems my half-brother and his gang are preparing for some sort of expedition abroad," the other said, pointing to the burning letter behind him. "Yet another glaring omission."

Marco sighed, shaking his head. "It doesn't mean anything."

Giuseppe snorted. "It means that whatever underhanded game my mother is playing at, I'm going to end it before it begins."

"By killing an innocent man?" Marco knew he was tempting fate now, every outburst edging him closer to the same grave Ignazio had been sent to. He didn't know why he cared so much about what happened to Sorhagen, honestly; maybe it was guilt. He only knew he cared what would happen to his best friend if he went through with taking an innocent life.

"I told you my mother would pay," Giuseppe reminded, and something in his voice terrified the wits out of Marco. It no longer sounded anything like the tempered, level-headed man Marco loved and respected.

In his continuing scramble to change the other's mind, the young smuggler pointed out, "She won't pay ransom for a dead man."

Giuseppe laughed without humor. "You yourself suggested Sorhagen's life means nothing to her, remember? If that's the case, why should it mean anything to _me_?"

"And if his life _is_ worth something to her?" Marco countered, narrowing his eyes. He was in too deep now to even try saving his own skin. He didn't care about that anyway; to hell with his own skin. If he could just save _Sorhagen's_ skin, then at least he could save Giuseppe from himself.

Giuseppe whipped his head away, mouth set with familiar stubbornness. "Then perhaps she'll understand what it feels like to have something important ripped away from her," he replied.

There was a deep hurt creeping behind those words; Marco heard it. That, too, wasn't like Giuseppe, yet Marco felt a distraught pang in his chest all the same. The crime lord needed comfort, reassurance, a firm hand to steer him back on course. And Marco was ready to lend that hand.

"You've already cut off Team Rocket's distribution," Marco explained slowly, trying to appeal to the other's sense of logic and reasoning, assuming Rue hadn't already driven those away too. "You've already taken over your mother's traffic. Her business will collapse regardless. You can't hurt her any more than you already have."

There was a pause from Giuseppe, one Marco hoped was reconsideration. Then, the kingpin's glare sharpened dangerously, and he muttered, "We'll soon find out, won't we?"

That should have been that, but Marco wasn't going to leave with a whimper. He snapped closer to his friend before he could turn his back to him again, surprising the younger but taller boy. "You always talk about doing the honorable thing. Hell, you drilled it into _me_." He gave a sidelong glance to Rue, who loomed not far as always, then returned his focus to Giuseppe. "So, where, exactly, is the honor in cold-blooded murder?"

"Not murder," Rue denounced quietly. "A sacrifice to Ronazak. The man will feel no pain. He will not even see the blade coming."

"Now he's to be sacrificed? What, are we primitives now?" Marco was rarely one to get angry, but when he did, he kept it tightly controlled, only visible if one knew the signs, and let it out only in small bursts when pushed to the breaking point.

The Delphox's eyes flashed dangerously before she shook her head and turned a bemused look on the flames. "You are lost in darkness and confusion, young smuggler. I see shadows hanging thick over your future."

"A good thing," Marco bit back, sparing only a quick glance on her. "I'd rather stumble blindly through shadows than dance at the end of your puppet strings."

Giuseppe whipped his head around, his glare catching both of them in its crosshairs. Unlike Marco, the younger man often put his anger on display when it boiled too hot, short fuse and all. "Enough, the both of you," he growled in warning. "You both act as if I've already given the order. Nothing is official yet."

"Then hold a meeting," Marco pleaded. "Please. Let's all just sit down, discuss our options and take a vote."

Rue hovered into Marco's space, almost as if to bar him from his friend. "His liege does not require approval to make decisions."

"Unless it's yours, you mean," Marco fired back, to which she could only shake her head at.

"Poor, misguided soul," she mewled, condescending just as she had been to Ignazio. "I weep for you. You understand so little."

Marco inhaled to keep his composure before looking Giuseppe's way again. "Could we speak in private, boss?"

The young crime lord turned his head to the Delphox and thought for a moment, then nodded wordlessly. She stared at Marco with those unnatural red eyes, and without looking away for a second, nodded back and left the room.

Once the door shut behind her, Giuseppe studied Marco pointedly. Dark, piercing brown, fathomless, beautiful and frightening; Marco had never felt as if he could drown in a gaze before. They were alone, at last. Only it was Giuseppe who broke the silence first, harshly and in reprimand.

"I never thought I'd have any reason to doubt your loyalty. Was I wrong?"

Marco felt like he'd been punched in the gut, but he swallowed past the feeling. "Loyal service includes telling harsh truths," he defended rigidly.

Giuseppe's lips were a thin line as he took a step toward his friend. "And what's the truth?"

Marco ground his teeth together before answering, knowing to tread lightly. "She's a Pokémon, an outsider, a fanatic preaching her foreign religion. Some believe she whispers orders in your ear and you obey."

Giuseppe hesitated, brow creasing noticeably. Then, he asked softly, "What do _you_ believe, Marco?"

Not breaking the other's gaze, Marco kept his voice deadly even. "I believe you're better than this," he said. "I held my tongue when you took Sorhagen prisoner, but this is where I have to draw a line and speak up."

"You made that obvious already," the other scoffed with a rigid nod. "But you're so concerned about my enemy's welfare that I can't help but think you've forgotten mine. Forgotten _ours_. You don't understand the position I'm in."

"Then help me understand. I'm a fast learner, remember?" Marco kept his voice gentle and quiet because he finally had Giuseppe opening up to him again and that meant more to him than his own life.

Exhaling, Giuseppe walked away from the brazier and pressed his hands up on the wall, leaning his weight against flattened palms. "I thought taking Sorhagen captive would compel my mother to fall in line and meet my demands," he uttered. "But so far, it has yielded no results."

Marco frowned. "She might be vain, but if Sorhagen really is important to her, she wouldn't consciously let him die."

He sniffed at that. "If she has a conscience, she's not demonstrating as much."

"Well, neither are _you_." The smuggler forced it out through gritted teeth, the effort paining him.

Giuseppe twisted on his heel and pinned him with a steely glare. "Watch yourself, now."

Marco didn't shift or flinch at the sharp tone, making it clear he hadn't spoken his mind lightly or without reason. Shutting down again, Giuseppe started to move past him and cut a path to his quarters, but Marco reached out and caught his hand in one bold movement. Loose enough that if the kingpin wanted to break free, he easily could.

"At the very least, sit on in this a little longer, would you?" whispered Marco.

Slowly, Giuseppe turned to face him. In the dim light of the flames, his face held a solemn expression. "Marco," he breathed the other's name, eyes intense again. He tilted his jaw up, indicating the brazier. "I have looked into the flames and seen my victory over the Rocket Gang, just as Rue has. It was no trick. I saw it with _my_ _own_ eyes. But the longer I bide my time, the hazier that vision becomes." Gingerly but with a bit of force, he pulled his hand out of Marco's. "I can wait no longer. I must take action."

When Marco spoke again, he did so with sweat on his palms and a hard knot in his throat. Because now it was _his_ turn to open up, much as he hated it. "I should have died the day that explosion turned my father's deli to cinders," he croaked, bringing his friend to an abrupt halt. "I… I still remember the taste of ash on my tongue after I crawled out of the wreckage and stumbled upon what was left of him. I'd never been so terrified. And so misled. We were supposed to be safe. Mos Vinci told us in the beginning that as long as we lived on his turf, we would be under his protection. So you can imagine how confused I was when I learned that what had happened was no accident, and that a rival gang had rigged our shop with Electrodes."

Marco paused to clear his throat and wet his suddenly dry lips, then dove right back into the muck of his memories. "I… remember the day I finally worked up the courage to crawl out of the gutter I was living in to go see Mos Vinci. I thought that maybe if I told him what happened, I could get retribution, at the very least." The very mental image of the late gangster made Marco stop to wince. "When I walked up to his desk, he had his feet kicked up in front of him, wearing that stupid, flashy vest that looked like a rainbow had puked up on it, and a smile on his face, like I wasn't worth a serious thought."

"I remember," Giuseppe curtly replied with a straight face, trying to bury all that emotion even now, suppress it. A crumbling mask.

Marco swallowed, and continued to recount that day. "There was a boy standing behind Vinci though, a little younger than me, watching and listening like a student in training. He never said a word. And his eyes never left mine as I told Mos Vinci what happened to me and who was responsible." He paused, and felt his hands curl into fists upon recalling that moment. "When I pleaded for him to seek justice for my father, do you know what the coward told me? He told me, very plainly, that he 'didn't wanna make something outta nothing'. He said that to _me_ , a thirteen-year-old kid who'd just watched his own his father die in front of him. A kid whose family and livelihood he'd promised to protect!"

Giuseppe was quiet and still, probably sharing in Marco's anger. On mooring feet, Marco began to close the space between them. "Vinci sent me away, and that seemed to be that," he pressed on, smoothing out the bitterness in his voice. "Then a year later I get called back to that casino, and I come to find out Mos Vinci is dead. I see another face behind his desk. The same boy I saw Vinci with the last time I visited."

At last, Giuseppe's solemn eyes met his. Just as they had that day.

Marco lowered his voice to a whisper, pulling his friend's hand into his own again. "This new godfather quietly led me into another room where two men were tied up. And I knew right then who those men were. I didn't know how I knew, but I _knew_ they were the same gangsters responsible for the explosion that took everything from me. So, the boy invited me to watch as his men gunned them down. And I did watch. And _that…_ well _, that_ was the moment I fell in love with you."

Slowly, as those words fell on his ears, Giuseppe turned around in Marco's grip and brought his arm up, fingers lacing into his friend's mussed, navy blue locks of hair spilling over his shoulders. It was as if the kingpin was coming out of a spellbound haze, remembering the man he was supposed to be, remembering to think for himself, to feel for himself, to feel anything _at all_.

"You gave me justice when Vinci wouldn't," Marco reminded, the memory bringing a smile to his own lips and a fraction of one to Giuseppe's. "You offered to bring me under your roof and your protection when Vinci didn't, and when I looked into your eyes that day, I realized I was staring at a man, not a kid. A good man. An _honorable_ and _just_ man, not a murderer. I can't speak to prophecies or visions or magical flames, but I have to believe you're still that same man from two years ago."

The fire in the brazier crackled and snapped, filling in the silence for a full minute before Marco took Giuseppe by the shoulders. And then Marco began to speak again, harsh truths that he prayed wouldn't upset Giuseppe. "You earned back almost everything that the mafia once thought lost. Don't lose it all to Rue. If you take Sorhagen's life, it won't solve anything. Because the victory will be _hers_ , not yours."

Giuseppe took in a long deep breath, then let it go through his nostrils. Once Marco released his grip on his shoulders, the kingpin turned his head away, then his body next, striking a contemplative stance Marco was used to seeing. After a moment, he nodded as if he'd just been told the weather.

"So be it," he uttered.

Marco exhaled in relief, but his chest was still tight and his palms clammy.

"I place his fate in _your_ hands instead," the other tacked on casually, like an afterthought.

Marco absorbed the words in silence, jaw twitching as they slowly sank in. "Wait, what?"

The kingpin's expression hardened, face returning to its stoicism as his gaze locked with Marco's again. "I want to know what the Rocket Gang is up to," he said, bringing up his index finger to punctuate the order. "You will follow my half-brother and his associates, and monitor their activities for me." He turned his back to Marco without missing a beat. "If my mother truly does require more time to settle her debt to me, so be it, but I won't be kept out of the loop."

After some digging, Marco found his voice, even if it came out cracked. "There's... gotta be more qualified men for this kind of spywork! I'm just a smuggler, a runner!"

"So who better to smuggle information for me than a former smuggler?"

"I just don't know that—" Marco trailed off, blinking slowly as something the other said stuck out in his mind. "Did you say... 'former'?"

Giuseppe beamed at him over his shoulder, giving a single, affirming nod. "I name you my First Lieutenant."

Fighting to keep his reactions in check, Marco ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "I—I don't know what to say."

"Don't make me regret it," Giuseppe said, and turned his head forward again as he continued toward his quarters.

Marco's words caught in his throat. He nodded, then remembered Giuseppe wasn't looking. He murmured his agreement instead. He still couldn't be sure the last thirty seconds had even happened though—a new assignment, a new position. Within the space of a single conversation, he'd just shot up the command chain and become Giuseppe's deputy. It was almost too much to take in, but what other choice did he have?

He snapped out of his thoughts when he realized Giuseppe had come to a halt in the doorway leading to his quarters. The young mobster glanced over his shoulder a final time, his eyes falling more softy on Marco than in the moments past. "This is supposed to be a family business," he said, a slight pout breaking through his voice, raw around the edges. "My mother never cared about me. I never knew my father, and I never had any love for Vinci or the other bosses. _You_ were the family I chose, Marco."

Marco smiled, and offered a wordless and respectful nod, because that was all he'd needed to hear. That his friend hadn't forgotten what mattered at heart.

"Eight months is the most I'll give my mother," Giuseppe added, the warning firm but coming from a quieter, more collected place than before. "That's generous. But I'll be counting down the days. Should you find an opportunity to speed things along while you're tailing Giovanni and his crew, you would be well-advised to exploit it."

This time when Marco nodded, Giuseppe vanished into the next room. And just like that, Marco heard the pop of a starting pistol go off somewhere in his mind, pitting him against the clock. Only it wasn't just his Sorhagen's life ticking away now; it was Giuseppe's faith in Marco, too. He was now Lieutenant Marco Sapone of the Saffron Mafia, yet with the title came a potentially steep price, the more he thought about it. Because if he failed his mission, Giuseppe would turn right back to Rue and get results _her_ way.

As that bleak thought played over in his mind, all enthusiasm for his new position seemed to slip out of him like water from a strainer. He turned his head to the brazier's dying flames, wondering against his better judgment if what Giuseppe had seen in that prism of embers that one night had been real and not just some magic trick.

Then a shiver ran down his back then, a terrifying realization about Giuseppe's supposed visions of the future dawning on him: Marco hadn't been in any of them.

 **To Be Continued . . .**

* * *

 **A/N:** Back when I was still writing Blessed Defiance, I wanted to write Archer into the story as a fourth traveling companion, but I decided against it mostly out of laziness. I'm kind of glad I did, as I think he fits more organically into this story because of the themes and territories it will end up exploring.

Sort of a disclaimer, but Ignicite and Holos Stones are concepts I borrowed from the Pokémon Rebirth Project. I was very generously given permission to borrow from them. I intend to borrow a few more concepts and elements, and incorporate them into this story as I did with Sedition and Echoes, as they help provide some much-needed lore to the Pokémon Anime universe.

 **Next Chapter:** Gio and Delia go their separate ways, while Tucker takes his _own_ future into his _own_ hands.

 **New Characters:**

 **Archer -** Born Archibald Brody, but later adopted the nickname 'Archer' after being bullied for his name as a boy. Though featured very briefly in the last two stories via mental figment or phone call, Archer was never properly introduced. He is Gio's childhood friend who left Viridian City sometime before the latter's Pokémon journey began. Now a member of Team Rocket, he is pulling all the necessary strings to make Gio's mission a successful one. He is loyal to Gio because of their history and recognizes the older boy's leadership qualities, perhaps even fearing them to be exploited and squandered for the sake of Madame Boss's grunt work. If Archer had his way, Giovanni would be rising through the ranks right beside him instead of settling for the bottom rung.


	9. When the Going Gets Tough

.

.

 **Short Change Hero**

 **Chapter 9: When the Going Gets Tough**

After wandering the Oak Corral for Legendaries knew how long, Gio found Sam in the gardens near the edge of the sprawling reserve, seated in a bed of blue flowers. Trowel in hand, the hearty professor was hacking away at the brittle earth, stopping only occasionally to readjust the gardener's hat sitting lopsided on his head. It was extraordinary just how peaceful he looked, so harmonized with the environment, the colorful foliage, the critters at play, all of it. It was impossible to describe in so many words, but he just looked like he belonged there in nature's palm, perhaps more so than the corral's Pokémon dwellers.

And as someone who just felt out of place among old friends and places, Gio envied Sam that. _A lot._

Sam's sandy blonde head spun on his shoulders when he heard Gio's footfalls, his voice pitching high and friendly as he patted down the soil in front of him. "Ah, good timing!" he said, gesturing past Gio's feet. "Hand me that watering can there, if you would."

The younger man jerked to a halt, twisting around awkwardly before finally locating the tin green pail blending seamlessly into the flora. He gingerly picked up the half-full can and passed it off to his friend, smiling politely but unable to muster any words, not even a greeting. His voice was cowering somewhere in his throat; this was all so surreal and uncomfortable. He hadn't spoken to Sam, face to face, in what had felt like eons. It was one thing hearing his voice over the telephone, but to see him in the flesh, so smiley and zestful, was like reliving an old dream. He'd half-expected a cold reception after all the local bad-mouthing Tucker had warned him about, but that clearly wasn't the case, and he wasn't prepared for it.

Sam's chuckle snapped Gio out of his daze. "Somehow I managed to keep these irises in bloom all summer long," said the professor, shuffling up and down on his knees as he watered the aisles of flowers. "I'd say they have a few weeks left, at best."

Gio coughed into his fist, finally dredging up his voice. "Never took you for a gardener, Sammy."

The older man shrugged. "Well, there's a Venusaur I'm watching over that likes to feed on them, so I keep on planting them. Come autumn, he'll have to snack on something else. I suppose I'll have to make a note of that in the instructions I'm leaving for Samson."

"Instructions," Gio uttered the word. Sam laughed again.

"Well, _someone_ has to maintain the lab and the corral while I'm away."

Gio couldn't help but notice the lack of invitation in Sam's tone. It was just as well though; he would be off on his own excursion anyway, and he suspected Sam knew as much.

"Samson?" Gio asked, if only to spark up conversation.

"My cousin," Sam explained as he set down the watering can. "He's flying in from the Alola Region to watch over things. I'd just as soon ask one of my brothers, but they're always so gosh darn busy." He finally stood and turned to face Gio, tugging off his gardening gloves. "Besides, I know Tucker would prefer the Pokémon be left in the care of someone as passionate about them as we are. That should give him peace of mind while he's studying at the Pokémon Technical Institute."

Gio furrowed his brow. "He's all enrolled then?"

The other man nodded. "He leaves in the morning. I decided to send him ahead of me so that he can settle into his new environment before diving headfirst into a rigorous curriculum."

Gio managed a smile. "He'll be fine. He's a sharp kid. Just like his father."

Sam returned the grin, but brushed off the comment. "Don't be silly. If anyone's rubbed off on him, it's you."

"Yeah, well, not where it counts," Gio murmured, shoving his hands in his pockets and digging the toe of his boot into the ground. He'd meant it as a joke, but a frown had found its way to his voice nonetheless. Even _he_ knew Tucker's best, most noble qualities had been inherited from Sam, not him. The only thing he could take credit for was the boy's rebellious streak of late, and he wasn't exactly proud of that.

The sound of Sam's bright, hearty laughter returned in full, and it made Gio look up, filled him with fluttering joy. It was the best sound Gio had heard in a long while, really. He only wished he had the wit to keep Sam laughing always. He missed this.

"Speaking of Tucker," Sam said musically, collecting himself, "I never did properly thank you for bringing him home safely that night he ran off."

Gio held up his palm. "You don't have to. Really." He rubbed his throat, feeling a lump of words there and trying to squeeze them out. "And if I'm being honest," he continued, voice cracking a bit, "I'm glad things went down the way they did. If Tucker hadn't run off, you and I… well… we wouldn't be on speaking terms again."

A new kind of smile lit up Sam's face, much softer than before and giving Gio some sparkle of hope that they hadn't split too far apart, that even if things couldn't go back to the way they had once been between them, they could improve, at least. It would be a rickety bridge to mend, but Gio was willing to walk it with mindful footing.

So he decided to take another bold step. "Sammy, look," he said, sighing. "I know you think I've changed and that I might not be the best influence on Tucker. And if I did something to upset you, I'm sorry—"

This time Sam held up a hand, startling Gio silent. "No. _I'm_ the one who should apologize." Gio began to shake his head in protest, but Sam made quick work of cutting him off again. "I mean it, Gio. It wasn't fair of me to judge you. How did Tucker put it? I was becoming my father. And he was right. I was."

"You don't have to apol—"

Once more, the professor silenced him, planting a hand hard on his rigid shoulder. "Instead of turning my back on you, I should have offered my ear to you. Whatever struggles you're going through, I should have been there."

Purely out of instinct, Gio began shaking his head again. "It's fine, Sammy."

"No, it's not fine," Sam rebuked, face twisting into a serious frown. "Remember how lost you felt in the year following your very first journey? I feared you were falling into the wrong crowd, so I stepped up and made an effort to be there for you, to nudge you back on the right path. You needed a father figure and I tried to fill that role to the best of my ability." His gaze fell. "But this time, it seems I've failed spectacularly."

Rather than deny and rebuff as habit would have demanded, Gio wet his parched lips contemplatively, before uttering, "What changed, Sammy?"

Sam winced a little at the question. "It's just… you've been so distant ever since Savile Island."

Gio opened his mouth and closed it again. He'd heard those words before, when they came from Delia's lips. This time it was Sam calling him out though. And Sam was the smartest man he knew. Gio wanted to punch himself. What an idiot he'd been thinking he could fool him. What a fool he'd been trying to desperately hide his pain and his shame and his anger, only to end up drawing more attention to himself in doing so.

"When you left Pallet Town and gave up your name," Sam continued, voice crestfallen, "I feared maybe the damage was already done and Metsuma had won after all."

Gio gave a slow nod as Delia's mother suddenly popped into his thoughts. "You wouldn't be the only one to think that," he muttered.

The Pokémon Professor's head tilted to one side. "I take it that's why you didn't attend Mr. Rezumi's funeral service."

"I wasn't wanted there," Gio murmured, glancing down at his feet. " _She_ didn't want me there, I should say."

Sam returned the nod, understanding. "I suspected as much."

Gio turned his head with the passing breeze, his gaze sweeping over the ample green playground for Pokémon. His eyes honed in on a Tangela and a Venonat as they chased each other into the neighboring flower fields. He felt empty watching them. Once he would have been awestruck at the sight, mind whirring as to whether such rare Pokémon would be worthy additions to his team. Nowadays, though, he would find himself wondering their worth on the black market, debating himself over whether or not they would satisfy his mother's buyers enough to keep he and his gang out of Team Rocket's crosshairs.

Even as he shook away the ugly thoughts, he found he couldn't blame Delia's mother for branding him a hoodlum and making every effort to keep him at bay. Maybe, in some way, she was doing him a favor. The woman was hell-bent on protecting Delia from him, after all. And she and Sam would likely prove better at that job than him if his upcoming mission fell to pieces.

But he didn't want to dwell on that. Because he knew if he believed nothing could change for the better, then nothing would.

"You're right, you know," he said after a long silence, centering his gaze on Sam. "I _am_ going through some things. And I really _do_ need a father figure in my life right now to help me sort it all out." Hearing himself talk, he snorted a self-deprecating laugh. "Actually, I just need a father. Period."

The older man fixed Gio with a curious stare. A flicker of realization and then elation danced in his eyes. Gio saw the moment it clicked for him—that this expedition to Sinnoh was a rescue operation first and foremost. And if Sam took this to mean he was returning to his heroic roots, Gio wasn't inclined to crush his spirits.

"Well, I'm proud of you," Sam said, the smile in his eyes now touching the corners of his lips. "You apparently don't need me to set you on the right path anymore."

Gio wanted to shoot down that bold assumption, but couldn't. Sam was right. He would always value his friend's advice, but sadly, the professor had nothing left to teach him, at least nothing to offer the man Gio was now. Maybe a few years back, but not anymore. To do right by himself and everyone else was his own burden.

"Just promise me you'll be safe," Sam whispered. "Tucker needs his godfather in his life."

Remembering he still had to say goodbye to the adolescent Oak, Gio turned his head left and right. "Where is the little champ anyway?"

Sam sighed, crossing his arms. "He was headed down to the local creek, last I checked. He wasn't in any mood to help me around here."

Gio frowned. "You broke the news to him about sending him away to school early, huh?"

Sam took a pause before answering. "Yes, but I'm afraid that wasn't the particular news that upset him."

Gio narrowed his eyes in question, then put two and two together; apparently, Sam had already saved him the trouble of breaking the boy's heart.

"If he'd heard it from you first, he would have stormed off before you even had the chance to explain yourself," rationalized the professor, true to his profession. "At least now he's had time to let it settle."

Exhaling, Gio nodded. "I'll find him and talk to him."

"And see if you can't get him to come home," Sam added. "I need him to help me fix that loose slat in the fence on the north side of the corral. We're on borrowed time before the Pokémon figure it out and decide to take a tour of the countryside."

Gio laughed. "I'm pretty handy these days. I'll take a look at it on my way out."

"Much obliged." After a moment, the professor stuck out his hand, smiling. "I suppose this is farewell then."

It took Gio a second to register the words. Once they sank in, he took the other man's hand firmly, squeezing it. He considered hugging him but decided to keep it formal, mild. This little reunion had reaffirmed something important for him; he cared about Sam too much to not continue keeping him at a distance while he sorted himself out. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint him all over again.

"Until we meet again, I guess," Gio replied thickly, pulling his hand back to his side.

Sam nodded, and sent him off with a friendly, "Best of luck to you."

He didn't leave Sam's eyes until his feet finally steered him back the way he came, getting him out of there before old emotions could keep him anchored. That was one self-made trap he couldn't afford fall into again. It sounded like a broken record, but he wasn't Giovanni Ketchum anymore; attachments and emotions came easy to _that_ person because there was a lower risk of blowback.

But the man he was now was volatile, compromised, and had too much to lose. To invite old emotions back into his life was to court disaster. In that sense, he felt much like a man with an infectious disease. He had to quarantine himself, isolate and withdraw until a cure could save him. And if that cure resided with his father as he suspected, then he would turn Sinnoh upside down just to find any route back to the Distortion World.

* * *

Tucker slogged down to the bottom of the pasture, shoulders sagging and hands stuffed in his pockets. Overhead the sky was harshly blue, just beginning to soften out to the west in time for daybreak. The next time he would see it like this would be on a one-way cab ride to Pokémon Tech, and though he'd made up with his dad, it didn't make it any easier to accept.

He'd tried looking at the positives, even though the list was short. On one hand, he'd always dreamed of leaving Pallet Town, and now he was... _sort of_ getting his wish? Of course, he _really_ wished, more than anything, that he had someone to share the experience with—someone to egg him on, keep things exciting. Usually, that person was Gio, but with his godfather splitting town now too, that was a pipe dream.

He dragged his feet across the little plank bridge overlooking the creek, stopping halfway to lean over the wooden rail and look down at the frowning face staring back up at him, steadfast against the stream's current. Legendaries, what he wouldn't give to watch the water carry that face away from this town. He wondered how far it could take him, anyhow; further than Pokémon Tech, he hoped. Maybe west, right to Johto's doorstep. Somewhere no one could easily reach him.

As he let his imagination soar, his eyes ran eagerly up the channel as it wove through the trees hemming the pasture, running thin as ribbon. If one tramped beside it long enough they could find places it pooled and deepened, offering up what could pass for a swimming hole. Gio and Delia used to take him to those places on hot summer days, back when everyone still got along with everyone and he wasn't buried in studies and chores.

It was funny to think Pallet Town had once felt like unexplored territory for him, a humongous sandbox of fun and freedom and simple pleasures to the fresh eyes of a toddler that had only ever known the inside of a crummy Cerulean City townhouse. After his dad had found him and his mother and moved them to Pallet, he remembered thinking it was the best home he could have asked for.

Now it felt more like a prison, shrinking around him the faster he grew up, and him a prisoner. And he didn't want to live out that life sentence when the outside world still had so much to offer him that adulthood and urban living couldn't. He just wanted to experience everything Gio and Delia and even his dad had experienced before they'd been forced to grow up. He didn't want to miss out on all that and end up a stuffy, hermit-like researcher like his granddad.

Angrily, he kicked a stray pebble with the toe of his sneaker, sending it crashing into the water below. His reflection gently rippled back and forth, but like everything else in his life, went right back to how it was. Even at Pokémon Tech, it would all be the same; different walls, same prison. He wondered what his mom would say. He wished he could pull her out of his dreams and into the world one of these days, have her set his dad straight for him. He couldn't imagine anything else getting through to his old man at this point.

"Well, look what the Persian hacked up!"

Tucker twisted his body halfway at the familiar, heckling voice and rolled his eyes when he saw Brandon coming down the grassy knoll. That dirt-eating smirk on his face hadn't moved since their spat in the schoolyard.

"Leave me alone, Brandon," Tucker groaned, facing forward again. The little bridge shook beneath him as the other boy stomped up on it, apparently hard of hearing.

"You know," Brandon crooned, getting right in the smaller boy's face, "now that you're being shipped off to boarding school, that stupid Cubone isn't going to have you around to babysit it anymore. Not that a pipsqueak like you could stand up to me anyway."

Tucker didn't even glance at him. "Or maybe you're not worth the swollen fingers."

The words earned him a hard shove that twisted him around so fast, he almost lost his footing. He was now eye-level with the much taller boy's bulging neck, but didn't shrink away. If he could stand up to a Beedrill swarm, he could hold out against a jerk like Brandon.

"You can talk the talk, but let's see you back it up," snorted the bully, lip curling up in a sneer and fists balled tight. "There's no bell and no teachers around to save you this time. And I still owe you a knuckle sandwich for sticking your nose where it didn't belong."

Tucker, unable to help himself, grinned up cheekily at the bully. "Did you come all this way to be nasty to me one last time? Or are you just going to miss me?"

"Keep talking, Oak!" Face reddening, Brandon practically spat it, the vein on his forehead rising angrily. His hand moved to his belt where a single Pokéball dangled. "I've got a Nidorino that would love to stomp you and your Pokémon into the dust." He paused suddenly and mocked him with a pouting expression. "Oh, but wait! You don't have a Pokémon! Because your daddy won't let you have one!"

This time, Brandon's words cut deep, and Tucker curled his lip. "You're wrong," he muttered.

"Really?" The older boy turned his head left, then right. "Cus I don't see one around."

Tucker opened his mouth, but his voice betrayed him, leaving him standing there gaping like a Magikarp. Brandon laughed it up before giving the smaller boy another hard shove, this one throwing Tucker off his feet and plunking him to the ground.

"Since you're gonna be out of town for a while, I'm gonna make this count," Brandon growled, rolling up his sleeves. Tucker understood what that meant and tried squirming out of reach as the older boy stalked closer. He managed to get back on his feet somehow, but not in time to catch the angry fist flying toward his face.

Then he felt something—a change in the air.

For no other reason than a gut feeling, he immediately dropped back down to his knees. Something came whiffling out from behind him, gliding over his ducked head and nailing Brandon square in the jaw. The force knocked Brandon on his butt, leaving him writhing and groaning on the bridge.

Tucker needed a moment to absorb whatever just happened. His eyes darted all around before settling on the object that had struck Brandon, now lying chiseled beside its target.

A bone club. Was he hallucinating?

Tucker reached forward and took the club in his hand, staring at it for a moment. Once the mental gears started to turn, he quickly swung around. There, standing at the end of the bridge behind him, was his Pokémon.

"No way," he breathed, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Kew," replied the Pokémon, which Tucker took to mean something reassuring.

The moment was spoiled when Brandon came to and launched himself upright in a rage. "Stupid, skull-wearing freak," he snarled, rubbing his tender jaw. "Finally learning to fight back, huh? Fine! Now I can squash you both!" He unsnapped the Pokéball on his belt and sent it hurtling. "Nidorino, Tackle Attack!"

Tucker sprung to his feet as soon as he saw the horned foe come charging out of its Pokéball and over the bridge. He started to back away until Cubone snatched the club out of his hand and rushed out in front of him, ready and raring to go. Tucker didn't know what to make of it. He didn't know how, but he could feel how tense Cubone was. He'd also felt it back when the Beedrills had surrounded them in the woods.

But despite that, the little guy wasn't running or hiding from _this_ fight. He was putting himself out there for Tucker.

"Alright," Tucker said over a lump in his throat, deciding to trust the Pokémon. "Uh… use Mud Slap!"

In tune with Tucker's game plan, Cubone dragged its club through the mud and flung a clump of it at Nidorino, who was charging too fast now to brake. It tried switching directions instead—only to end up careening off the bridge and into the stream below. A rookie mistake Tucker couldn't help squeal out laughing at.

"Not very bright, is it?" he shouted at Brandon, giving the jerk a taste of his own medicine. "I guess Pokémon really _do_ take after their Trainers!"

Brandon gritted his teeth, struggling to ignore the barb. "Nidorino, get back into the fight!"

Tucker put on his battle face as the opposing Pokémon lunged from the water and made a mad dash up the bank of the stream toward Cubone. He filed through his brain for more moves to try out and found quite a selection to choose from; maybe some of that studying was paying off after all.

"Cubone, use Tail Whip!" he decided.

"Kew! Kewbone!" The masked Pokémon threw itself to the side, avoiding Nidorino's sharp horn by a hair, before swinging its tail around mid-air and bullseyeing the purple giant in the eye. Half-blind, Nidorino reeled in a botched attempt to slow its momentum and face-planted into the grass.

"I can't believe it!" Tucker gasped, rubbing his eyes to make sure none of this was a dream. "We're actually battling! And we're winning!"

"Kew!" Cubone cheered, proudly holding its club in the air like a knight unsheathing his sword.

"It's not over yet!" hollered Brandon, stomping down the bridge. "Nidorino, get up and use Double Kick!"

Tucker didn't miss a beat. "Cubone, try another Bonemerang attack!"

Nidorino, still disoriented, stumbled at first to get up. Once it began to round on Cubone, it did so clumsily and with dizzy footing, and a part of Tucker felt for the Pokémon; it was burnt out, but Brandon was still pushing it over its limits.

Before Cubone could throw his club, Tucker held out his hand to belay the order. He just couldn't bring himself to do it. Not that it mattered anyway; Nidorino collapsed before it could take another step, leaving Brandon seething in defeat.

"Whatever!" the taller boy spat, recalling Nidorino. He brought up his fists and, like the sore loser he was, began to charge forward in his Pokémon's place. "I don't need a Pokémon to smack you twigs around!"

This time when Cubone reared his weapon, Tucker didn't stop him. The object was airborne one moment, then colliding with Brandon's crotch the next.

And _then_ it was over.

Brandon's fists went from raised in front of him to joined between his legs in one picture priceless movement, accompanied by a howl of pain so loud that it scared all the Pidgeys from the nearby bushes. Tears sprung to the bully's eyes, something Tucker thought he'd never get to see.

Yeah, this _had_ to be a dream.

The bully buckled at the knees but denied Tucker the pleasure of watching him thrash on the ground; instead, he whimpered his way back across the creek and out of the pasture to whatever unlucky ice pack was waiting for him back home. The itch to gloat and laugh gnawed at Tucker, but he decided he was better than that. Instead, he pivoted around to congratulate the real victor.

"You came back," he said after a thoughtful moment.

The brave little Cubone planted his club in front of him like a flagpole. "Kew!"

Tucker set his hand on his hips and lifted a brow. "For good this time?"

Cubone didn't react right away, seeming to think over the question. The long pause deflated Tucker a bit, and he half-expected the Pokémon to up and ditch him again. That would have been just his luck—finally getting a taste of being a real Pokémon Trainer, only to have it ripped away.

But then the Pokémon reared its club in a salute, and just like that, Tucker was all smiles again. He moved in for a hug, but the Pokémon stopped him with a sharp, expectant glance. Catching on, Tucker patted down his shorts, pretended to search his pockets, then shrugged.

"No biscuit sticks today, little guy."

"Kew," sighed the Pokémon

"Is that gonna be a deal breaker?"

In answer to the question, Cubone jumped into Tucker's unprepared arms, startling him. It took him a second to process the affection, let alone return it; but when he came to, he hugged his partner Pokémon tight. If this was the Legendaries finally throwing him a bone, he swore he wouldn't take it for granted. He'd fought so hard to earn this from Cubone that even if they never ended up competing in the Pokémon League together, it didn't matter. He was happy with just this.

A quiet moment, then—

"Congratulations."

Tucker whipped his head up, finding Gio marching up the bank in his biker gear. He squinted in confusion until he spotted Diamond Dust parked further downstream against the bend of the dirt road. "Are you kidding me? You were spying on me?"

"You're now a Pokémon Trainer," Gio ignored the accusation, clapping. "And a damn impressive one, I have to admit."

"Did you watch all of that?" Tucker choked out.

"Just enough."

"And you didn't offer to help?"

"Didn't need to," Gio replied. "You and Cubone battled like you'd done it a hundred times before."

Tucker looked down at his Pokémon, unable to help smiling. Gio was more right than he knew. He had done this countless time before, in his dreams, in his bored daytime dazes, putting himself in imaginary matches. He had his dad's research to thank for moveset knowledge and all that, sure; but the rest had just sort of clicked in the heat of the battle, that power that was inside.

"And at least now you'll have company at Pokémon Tech," added Gio.

While true, Tucker gave a small huff. "I'd still rather compete in the Pokémon League the old fashion way."

Gio frowned, nodding. "I know. Can't always get what we want though. Believe me, I wish it were otherwise. But sometimes we just gotta do what we gotta do."

Hearing those words, Tucker immediately understood why Gio had come, and set Cubone down. When he found his voice, he didn't bother masking the disappointment in it. "My dad was telling the truth, wasn't he? You _really are_ leaving Kanto."

Gio shifted a bit, setting his jaw. There was no way to soften the blow, so he told the boy straight. "On business, yes," he said softly. "But not for too long, I promise." He reached forward and gave Tucker's shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "After I get back, I'll come to visit you at school every chance I get. But for now, Sinnoh is where I'm needed."

"I understand," Tucker mouthed under his breath, flashing a weak smile up at Gio.

"And I'm leaving for Vermilion City first thing in the morning, so—"

"So this is goodbye," Tucker finished for him.

"Yeah."

Nodding, Tucker let his gaze fall despondently to Cubone. "And we'll be in a cab headed to a paradise of essays and exams, right, buddy?" He couldn't help sounding glum about it; sure, he was happy to have a Pokémon partner along for the ride, but his future plans were already airtight, mapped out, and out of his hands.

"Keep him on his toes, Cubone," Gio tasked the little masked warrior.

"Kew."

Tucker laughed and crouched down, patting the top of Cubone's mask. "Right, and no more running off. I'm gonna need you when the other boys decide to start picking fights with me."

Gio crouched with him, holding the boy's gaze. "Hopefully, with time, _you'll_ be the one to watch out for."

Tucker shrugged and made a face. The older boy saw this and shook his head, smirking.

"Just don't let the other students intimidate you," Gio told him. "If you're going to make a first impression, make it a strong one."

"Me? Strong?" Tucker practically choked on his own laughter. Gio's expression, however, went calm and serious.

"Trust me, if you demonstrate strength, no one will cross you," explained his elder, indicating Cubone. "Train with your Pokémon as much as possible. Evolve him, if you must. Win as many battles as you can. The more powerful of a Trainer you are, the smaller everyone else will seem."

Tucker willed himself to nod, not sure what to do with that advice. "Uh… right," he uttered, a little embarrassed by the way his voice broke on the word.

"And when victory is in your grasp, take it," Gio added, the slight hiss in his voice surprising Tucker. "Don't give the opponent an inch because they'll take a mile. Give no quarter, Tucker."

That's when it hit him; Gio had seen him show mercy to the Nidorino. That's what this whole pep talk was about.

"I couldn't do it," Tucker mumbled, letting his gaze slip.

"Yes. I saw."

"It just wouldn't have been right," he tacked on as a clumsy afterthought, as if to reassure both himself and Gio. He felt ashamed but didn't know why.

There was a long pause between them, which Gio eventually broke with a drawn-out exhale, before speaking again. "Tucker," he said, the sudden hoarseness in his voice wrangling the boy's focus. "Out there, in the real world, it doesn't always pay to play fair. I have the scars to prove just how much hesitating can cost you."

Tucker bit down on his lip, slumped his shoulders. "I don't care what happens to me. I just…" He paused to look at his Pokémon. "I just don't want Cubone or any Pokémon getting hurt too bad."

Gio took in a sharp breath that almost sounded like disappointment, running a hand through his own hair before refocusing. "I'm only telling you this because I want you to be able to handle yourself, alright? If you let people walk all over you, you'll just be proving your dad's point and he'll never let you go off on your own."

Tucker cleared his throat uncomfortably but stood up. "Right, sure. Any other tips?"

Gio laughed at the obvious effort to change the subject and rose to his own feet, shrugging. "Well, I spent most of my childhood sheltered before becoming a Pokémon Trainer." As he spoke, he seemed to space off. "My mother would hire teachers and tutors to come and homeschool me, so there wasn't much fighting to be done. But I did manage to break a few noses and jaws in grade school."

Tucker flinched. "Woah, you had a mean streak?"

Gio didn't look at him, but his cheek twitched. "I still do."

"Huh?"

"Nothing." The older boy smiled and spread his arms. "Just give me a hug already, will you?"

Tucker surged forward, flinging his arms around the other's waist and squeezing tight, trying not to think about how it might be the last time. Gio reached down, lifting him just an inch off the ground to return the embrace in full.

"You're getting too heavy for this," Gio said breathlessly.

Tucker smirked. "Maybe you're just getting too weak, gramps."

"Wise ass," Gio muttered, giving the back of Tucker's bushy head a firm noogie. Tucker chuckled, swatting the other's hand away and hugging tighter. He didn't want to let go. He was afraid once he did, nothing would ever be the same again.

"I wish me and Cubone could go with you," Tucker murmured, thinking out loud.

"I know," Gio whispered back, chin digging into the boy's shoulder.

"Say goodbye to Meowth for me."

"I will."

When they finally separated, Tucker reached down and scooped Cubone back into his arms, almost reflexively; he just didn't want to be alone. And he wouldn't be. He would be okay. He would pull through and do Gio proud.

"You know," Gio sighed, grinning mischievously and raising his brows to Diamond Dust in the distance. "I've got an extra helmet. How about one last joy ride?"

"Yeah," Tucker said softly, returning the smile as a calm settled over him. "Yeah, I'd like that."

* * *

No matter how hard her fingers pried into the rusty metal, Delia just couldn't work open the locket. She blew out a sigh, plopping down on the edge of her father's empty bed and giving the trinket in her hands a hopeless glance; just one more dying wish of her father's she apparently couldn't honor. She looked around the bedroom with a knot in her stomach, the furniture and walls thoroughly stripped of her father's belongings, all of which now filled a large stack of boxes in the far corner. She was a little hesitant when her mother had decided to rent the room out to strangers, but desperate times, desperate measures. They needed an income that wasn't totally dependent on the earnings of a washed-out diner.

She laughed at herself, remembering her talk with Sam at the church—as if she could actually leave home now. Who had she been kidding?

A shuffling in the hall outside the door pulled her out of her thoughts. She shot to her feet, quickly tucking away the locket into her blouse just as her mother appeared in the doorway. The woman's jaw was slack, eyes wide. Her hands, holding an unsealed envelope by both ends, shook as if a cold draft had blown through the windows.

Delia slowly moved toward her mother, eyeing the envelope curiously. "What is it?"

The older woman said nothing, just held it toward her daughter. Hesitantly, Delia took the envelope and from its pouch pulled out a slip of paper, immediately identifying it as a check. She spotted her father's name printed on the payee line, then glanced up at her mother.

"A donation?"

"An inheritance," her mother corrected, tapping the bottom of the slip. "Look, Delia. Just look."

When Delia spotted the written amount, her own jaw dropped. "Eighty-thousand Pokédollars," she gasped, almost losing her balance.

"Eighty- _thousand_ ," her mother repeated back, probably to reassure Delia that she wasn't hallucinating.

"That…" Delia had to pause, struggling to find words. "This can't be right. It must be a mistake or a—"

"It's addressed to your father's name, Delia! Just look again!"

She did, this time unable to deny her eyes. "How can this be? An inheritance? Really?"

Her mother nodded. "From some great uncle in the Kalos Region, apparently."

Delia quirked a brow, reading over the drawer's alleged signature to confirm her mother's claim. "I… I didn't even know father had relatives so far away."

"Neither did I, but..." The older woman trailed off, excited laughter bubbling out of her, her face glowing in a way Delia hadn't seen in so long. "Fifty-thousand dollars, Delia! This is more than just money! This is—"

"This is more than enough to cover all our expenses," Delia finished for her, the words drawing all the breath out of her lungs. Just saying and hearing it out loud was enough to suspend belief, yet here it was, a miracle, real and tangible as any other solid object in reach. And only a short while after she'd just vented to Sam about her financial troubles, too.

How... curious.

The older woman flew at Delia then, throwing her arms around her daughter and weeping with joy. "We are so blessed, Delia! This is your father's doing! He's watching over us!"

" _Someone_ sure is," Delia murmured to herself.

* * *

A cool, autumn breeze blew in off the water and kissed Gio's skin. He stuffed his hands in his pockets for warmth but didn't move otherwise, just stared at lake and sky, both meeting in a blend of shimmering blue and sunset orange. He could smell the faint ocean salt coming off the horizon. He could smell the aroma of the Butterfrees as they skimmed over the water.

It made him sick to his gut.

He pulled out a lighter and a carton of cigarettes from inside his jacket, lighting one up and filling his lungs. He exhaled and let the smoke numb his nose to the other smells. He was trying to remember what had even compelled him to come here. He'd meant to meet Delia after dropping off Tucker, but something had drawn him back to this place; that annoying Ketchum pride, probably. The boy behind the man was tied to this lake by a heartstring and wasn't letting go.

Surrendering, if just for this once, he leaned back against Diamond Dust and thought back to his last visit here. Lake Pallet had always been the usual meeting spot for him and Delia as teenagers. He couldn't figure out why such pleasant memories felt like torment. Nostalgia, perhaps? His own mind trying to trap him in the past again? Trying to convince him he could go back to how things were by just bottling the rest up? Trying to paralyze him, keep him from leaving Kanto?

If so, it was working. The more he saw of Pallet, the less he wanted to leave. Because of course he didn't want to go to Sinnoh. He hadn't asked for any of what had happened in the last two years, or even before that. In a perfect world, he would be the perfect man, not just in his own eyes but everyone else's. He wouldn't have anything to feel insecure about, wouldn't have to walk on eggshells and question what triggers might set off his aggressive conscience. Hell, he wouldn't have to hate himself for visiting a damn lake.

"Last place I expected to find you."

The voice scattered his thoughts to the wind, and he slowly turned his head. He hadn't even heard Delia approach, and Legendaries, she looked every bit as beautiful as he pictured when remembering this place as it was before. It was as if she'd stepped out of the memory, out of his mind and into the present. It never mattered what she had on or which way she wore her hair or how long between their visits; she just didn't age, damn it.

His gaze traveled downward to find her holding a duffel bag in one hand, and he hoped she wasn't planning on leaving town with him and defeating one of the main points of his mission.

"You told me you quit," she said, eyeing the cigarette sitting in his fingers. He considered tossing it, then brought it back to his lips for another drag when he decided he didn't have the energy to think up excuses.

"I did," he replied when he came up for air. "Then I started again."

"Those things can kill you," she warned, just as she had hundreds of times before. He let out a frustrated gust of air through his nostrils.

"So can a lot of things, but I've beaten the odds so far," he muttered, and regretted it as soon as he saw her face drop. He shook his head in lieu of smacking himself and pushed off of Diamond Dust, turning to face her. "I'm sorry. It just… helps take the edge off."

Dropping the bag to her feet, she stepped toward him and snatched the cigarette from his hand without a word. Rather than throw it in the lake like he was expecting, she lodged it between her lips and took a drag from it, catching him off guard. He tried taking it away from her when she coughed at first, but she shot him a sharp look that quickly made him back off. She had never had the nerve to actually smoke until now, but fair was fair. He wasn't the only one under stress after all; she'd just lost her father, so she was in the right as much as he was, if not more so.

He relaxed a bit, returning to his earlier posture. She moved to his side, leaning back with him against the motorcycle's frame and taking in the view of the lake. They just stayed silent like that for a minute.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, passing the cigarette back to him.

He nodded, sucking in and puffing out a ring of smoke. "Some things just don't change."

"And other things change too much," she said in an almost numb voice.

He looked at her askance but was too wrought with guilt to fully meet her eyes. "I would have come to the service, Delia. I wanted to but—"

"I know," she cut him off.

Cautiously, he turned his head to her, staring into the side of her face. "Will _she_ be upset I came to see you?"

Her tone and expression stayed neutral. "No. She's actually in a good mood, believe it or not."

He nodded, facing forward again. He wondered briefly it if was in his best interest to act surprised by the news. It probably wouldn't have mattered. Delia was smarter than that.

"It seems my father was left an inheritance he never knew about," she carried on with the subject, just when he was hopeful she'd dropped it. She was facing him now, pressing into his periphery. "So strange how it only reached us now, after he's gone."

"So strange," he parroted, shrugging with as much aloofness as he could muster. He was making every effort to skirt the conversation and retain anonymity, but she wasn't making it easy.

"My father has no family outside the Kanto Region, though," she pointed out. "And that means someone else sent us that money."

"Huh," was all he could say.

She sighed, probably realizing he wasn't going to break. "I thought maybe it was Sam, at first, but now I think... it was you."

He didn't answer, a muscle in his face jerking as he tossed his cigarette to the grass and stamped it out. What could he admit to that she hadn't already pieced together herself?

"Look at me, Gio."

Taking a deep, full breath, he finally turned to face her again. He didn't even have to say anything. One look in his eyes was all she apparently needed.

"What in the world were you thinking? Why would—" She stopped herself mid-question, humming out a frustrated note and letting her eyes briefly fall shut. Once she recalibrated, she asked calmly, "How did you even come up with that much money?"

He paused to think something up, even if the delayed response was sure to undermine it. "I took it out of my salary."

"Stop it." Her mouth became a hard line. "I'm not that dumb. We both know no Gym Leader makes that kind of—"

"Delia, enough," he silenced her, his earlier frustration creeping back into his throat. He rubbed vigorous circles into his forehead and brought his voice down to a less frightening volume. "It doesn't matter how I got it, alright? All that matters is that you use it to get you and your mother back on your feet. It'll more than cover the medical expenses, the funeral costs, any other bills coming your way for the foreseeable future."

There was a tense beat of silence before she said anything. But her voice wasn't angry, like he thought it would be. She only sounded confused, worried.

"Why do you have to keep hiding things from me, Gio?"

He sighed. He _didn't_ want to hide from her. He _did_ want her to understand. He always wanted her to understand. He wished he could be honest with her. He wished he could tell her how he'd auctioned himself out to his mother for the small fortune in question.

"Please," he croaked when the rest wouldn't surface. "Just take the money. Please."

"It's too much," she began to protest. "I can't accept it."

"You can and you will, Delia."

She frowned, looking off across the water for a thoughtful second, then down at the grass. Just shy of murmuring, she asked, "Is this because you feel guilty? About leaving?"

He shook his head. "You told me the best way to find myself was through my father and my past, remember?"

Her head snapped up at this, brows drawing together. Something in her eyes seemed to leap up. That same hopeful glint he'd seen in Sam's eyes earlier.

"But a journal isn't enough," he confessed, taking her by the shoulders. "He's alive and he's waiting for me. I'm going to bring him back to the world he belongs."

She was really quiet for a moment, then reached up, cupped his jaw and smiled slightly. Her touch was feather-light and warm. "You follow your heart," she told him quietly. "And I'll follow mine. As long as they lead us back to each other, I'll be okay."

He smiled despite himself. "So will I."

"You promise?"

"I swear it."

She nodded, satisfied, even though he could sense she was still a bit anxious for him. She tried to mask it, clearing her throat and changing the subject. "You've already packed then?"

He rocked back on his heels, exhaling. "Mostly. There are still a few things—"

"Taken care of," she cut him off, picking up the heavy duffel she'd brought and plopping it in his arms. "I had some free time yesterday, so I put together a little carry-on bag for you."

"Delia, you didn't have to..."

Before he could finish, she was already unzipping the front pouch and listing off its contents. "I packed you some clean shirts and underwear I picked out while in town the other day, a scarf and coat in case you end up in the mountains, a few bottles of fresh Mount Moon spring water, also your favorite snacks and hot chocolate in case you want something hot. Oh, and some Pokéballs and fishing lures in case you're feeling a little adventurous, and—"

He shoved the bag aside and silenced her with his lips, and in short order, they melted into their first kiss in what felt like ages. It was sweet and soft. Tentative, yet eager. And above all, apologetic.

"Thank you," he whispered against her lips, nudging the bag with his foot. And to think he'd wasted the better part of an afternoon just struggling to fill a suitcase.

She stood on her toes and pecked his cheek. "Happy to do it. Took my mind off things."

Lowering his gaze, he noted something odd sticking out of the bag's side pocket. He reached down and picked up a small box of toothpicks, laughing. "Really?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "I thought something to chew on might curb the urge to smoke. I guess I was too late."

Touched that she still cared, he gingerly slid the box in his free pocket and snaked his arms back around her waist. "You weren't," he said, resting his chin above her head. "I'll swear off them for good this time."

"Sure," she laughed into his neck, clearly not buying it. He knew better than to plead his case and insult her intelligence, and decided to just change topics.

"What's next for _you,_ then?" he asked, and immediately she froze against him, body stiff as a board. Slowly, he pulled back out of the embrace and held her at arm's length to get a good look at her. Her smile had slipped a little, but was still hanging loosely on her lips.

"I've been thinking a lot about the future," she let out in a breath, smoothing her hair as she so often did when she was self-conscious. "About getting a real job, maybe even a career. Sam even offered to pull some strings and enroll me in some classes at Celadon University."

Gio drew his head back a fraction, surprised. "Really?"

She gave a timid shrug. "Well, I'm still considering my options, but this might be just what I need."

While he didn't want to rain on her parade, her safety meant too much to him to keep quiet. "Celadon City is a dangerous place to be in right now, Delia. Team Rocket and the Saffron Mafia are—"

She cut him off with a finger to his lips. "I can handle myself, Gio."

"I know, it's just—"

"Or have you already forgotten who snuck into that training installation and rescued you and Spencer when Torino took you both prisoner?" she reminded him, a valid enough point to make him bite his tongue.

"Right," he remembered, clearing his throat. As if unconvinced, she gave his arms a bolstering squeeze.

"Plus, if I _do_ do this, I'll have Sam and Cuddles with me," she assured him. "I won't be alone."

Smirking, he reached up to tuck her hair behind one ear, letting his fingers trail a few inches down its length before resting his hand against her neck. "Just don't get caught in the crossfire. Stay safe."

She frowned slightly and splayed her palms against his chest. "It's _you_ I'm worried about. The last time you went to the Distortion World, you barely made it back alive."

He placed his hands atop hers and smiled. "Then it's a good thing I'll have my Pokémon and my associates with me."

"Associates," she repeated the word with a skeptical look. "I don't know why you ever stayed in touch with those clowns. Especially that Ariana, always flirting with you in her skimpy outfits."

Gio stifled a laugh. "Let her keep on dreaming."

She pulled away from him, crossing her arms. "Not funny."

"You sound jealous."

"I am _not_ jealous."

He chuckled louder, which quickly chipped away at her stubborn mask and saw her joining in. He then presented his hand again, waited for her to retake it. She placed her tiny hand in his palm, the entirety of it engulfed by his, and he brought her to him again. This time when he kissed her, it was sweeter, softer, yet still passionate, his tongue caressing the edge of her lower lip as if to soothe all her fears and worries.

When they finally pulled apart, he smiled a sad sort of smile at her. "I know it's been rough lately," he admitted hoarsely, "but I'm going to set everything right again, Delia. I promise."

She didn't say anything to that. She just smiled at him and sat down on the grass, pulling her knees to her chest. Before he could question it, she was patting the ground beside her. "Sit with me awhile? Like you used to?"

A suggestion never sounded so simple yet so hard for him to jump at. The more time he spent with her, the more painful the goodbye would be. He didn't want that. Coming here had been a mistake. It was probably best to just leave now, rip off the leech and be done with it.

"Yeah," he said, his heart speaking for him and plunking him down next to her. She leaned her head on his shoulder, snuggling into his side as they looked across the water and savored the moment before it could slip away from them. No questions. No drama. No tension. Just each other for this one last perfect yet painful sunset.

* * *

Ariana ran her fingers over the soft satin dresses lining the back wall of the department store, arguing with herself back and forth whether she had time to try some on and, if so, how many. She'd only made the trip here to shop for some warm clothing for the trip to Sinnoh, yet had somehow ended up hogging the dressing room for the better part of the day, trying on tops and pencil skirts and too many pairs of shoes to count.

She yanked her hand away from the rack in front of her as if it were cursed. Enough was enough. She didn't need dresses on top of everything else. She couldn't start down that path now.

Then again, there was always the possibility she and Gio would end up snowed in by a blizzard, trapped inside some cozy hotel room, with nothing but a warmly burning fireplace and each other to keep warm. She certainly couldn't make a romantic evening of that wearing some frumpy outfit. In fact, she could do even better than a discount dress and cut out the middleman altogether. As Arceus as her witness, she would find something that would really get his heart pumping.

Moving to the next rack, her eye immediately found what she was looking for. It was only supposed to be mindless browsing, but a red, silk, see-through robe with fuzzy cuffs caught her eye. She was in the process of reaching for it when a woman with a smile that was too large and eyes that were too intense approached her with clasped hands.

"Are you finding everything okay, ma'am?" the store attendant asked. Ariana spared her little more than a glance, and barked out an unimpressed laughed.

"Nice try," she said in a low, frosty tone, turning forward again.

"Pardon?"

Ari rolled her eyes, lazily pointing to the Koffing crossbones tattooed on the woman's forearm. "You finally put together a half-decent disguise, yet forget to hide your most glaring feature. Honestly, is there nothing you can do right?"

The shop attendant sagged in disappointment. "Rats," she said, this time in a man's voice.

Ari glared hard at Petrel as he began to shuck off his disguise, then shouldered past him to browse the next section of racks. "Why did you follow me here, pest?" she demanded flatly.

He peeled off his mask, adjusted his purple whiff, and slid into her periphery like the snake he was, narrow face morphed into a wicked grin. "So that I wouldn't miss out on all this riveting action," he replied, reaching into her bag without invitation and pulling out the parka she had tracked down earlier. "Really?" he howled in laughter. "You _can't_ be serious!"

She jerked the coat out of his filthy hands, quickly shoving it back into the bag. "Why not? I happen to know it snows in Sinnoh."

"Yeah, in the mountains, not the boroughs," he cackled mockingly. "We're going there on business, not to sleigh ride down the slopes!"

"It's much colder there than you think, especially going into autumn." She quickly cleared her throat upon noticing his brow raise. "Or... so I hear."

He smirked, humming. "Yes, you seem to have heard quite a lot about Sinnoh," he teased.

She couldn't think of a smarmy rebuttal, so she just bared her teeth and walked away. She pretended not to hear him following her through the racks of clothes. She hoped that a good dose of the silent treatment might bore him enough into leaving on his own.

When she couldn't make up her mind after a rigorous ten-minute hunt, she came upon a mirror on the wall and let out a sigh as she posed in front of it, setting her imagination free. "What would I look absolutely radiant in?" she asked her reflection, tossing back her red mane and jutting her hip a bit.

"A sealed mausoleum."

She jerked at the sound of Petrel's voice and turned her head left, eyes quickly hardening into an expression he knew all too well. "Are you still here? Will you buzz off already?"

"Oh, wake up and smell the flowers, Ari!"

She whipped her head away. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"The man is in a committed relationship, yet you insist on wooing him," he drawled on, like he thought announcing her future husband's momentary fling with some doe-eyed tease suddenly meant he was forever off the market. _As freaking if_. This was her soulmate he was talking about here. She knew Gio could never settle for a tease.

"Committed?" she finally spat back at Petrel, waving her hand as if to shoo the word from existence. "Don't make me laugh. It's still open season, as far as I'm concerned. I've never seen a ring on Delia's finger."

"And you'll never see one on yours either," he remarked not so quietly under his breath, and she shot him another sharp glare, brow furrowing. He ducked his gaze to the fire.

"You really don't think I have a shot with him, do you?" she challenged, craning her neck and planting her hands on her hips.

"Actually, I meant in general," he said, lolling his head innocently.

She clenched her jaw, then let it go with a sigh when she realized his ignorance. "Oh, Petrel," she laughed, trying to inject pity into her voice. "Sweet, naive, dumb, stupid Petrel. In the end, Gio will choose me over Delia. It's just a matter of when and how."

"And most importantly: _why_ ," he added.

She turned her nose up at him and dropped her faux-playful tone. "Don't you have another dress to try on, master of disguises?

"Of course," he chuckled, twisting on his heel. "If I wanted to look more masculine, I'd just dress up like you."

She offered only a growl in response before turning to the mirror again.

"Oh, but wait!" his voice rang out. "There was some important information I was supposed to pass on to you."

Stamping her heel to the floor, she glared daggers at him through the mirror. "Then come out with it already, you cross-dressing clown!"

He cleared his throat before speaking, stretching her patience, before adopting a suspiciously polite and formal tone. "I just thought you'd like to know an old friend of ours will be voyaging with us to Sinnoh."

"What friend?" she snorted with little interest, continuing her poses.

A smile bled into his voice. "Your old childhood sweetheart."

She whipped her head around so fast that her neck felt the strain.

"That's right," he chuckled deviously. "Archer."

"Ar… Archer?" The name just about stumbled off her tongue.

"Yep! I wanted you to hear it from me first!" He wiggled his fingers in a mock farewell, winking. "Anyway, toodles!"

Before she could even think coherently enough to chase him down and squeeze more details out of him, he was already fleeing out of the store in laughter. She turned to the mirror again, scowling at her reflection. This changed everything.

* * *

Marco could have just walked out of the casino with his packed rucksack and not looked back, but his conscience had other ideas, steering him to the holding cells beneath the building. He didn't expect to see it with his own eyes, but Kade Sorhagen's prison truly was some unholy fusion between a bedroom and a jail cell. Iron bars stood in the place of doors, however, as if to remind anyone trapped behind them not to get too cozy. In Marco's worthless opinion, it gave off a few mixed signals too many.

He approached the cell on light feet, careful not to wake the nearby Machokes that had dozed off while standing guard. He peered through the bars and saw the Rocket executive reduced to a pathetic heap in the far corner of the room, against the wall, away from the made bed that didn't even show a wrinkle of use. Apparently, there _were_ some wounds luxury just couldn't fix.

"Room service," he announced himself sarcastically, since jokes usually came easy to him in grim situations. Across the cell, Sorhagen lifted his bald head from his knees, staring unamused at Marco.

"Hungry?" Marco asked after some silence.

"Not for food," the other grumbled back.

Marco chuckled. "Figured," he said, turning his head left and right before squatting down and lifting a small flask from his pocket. Kade's eyes lit up immediately and he wasted no time crawling up to the bars to snatch the generous gift from Marco.

After a few good swigs of his poison, the bald prisoner came up for breath and turned a wry smile on the mobster. "Apparently there _is_ honor among thieves."

Marco shrugged a shoulder. "Or maybe I'm just a slow learner."

Kade sighed, and for a second Marco thought those hapless eyes looked at him with sympathy, maybe even pity. Then the Rocket reached his hand through the bars and tapped Marco with his finger. Right on his chest, directly over his heart. " _This_ right here? It will be your doom."

Marco pursed his lips, weighing the statement. "Like I said, slow learner," he reasoned. He threw another cautious glance over his shoulder, then leaned forward to whisper, "Speaking of which, I, uh, managed to keep you alive a little bit longer."

The other man put his hand over his heart mockingly. "How touching! I didn't realize my life meant so much to you."

"It doesn't, really," Marco huffed, shrugging again.

"Then why help me at all?"

"Because it's what's right."

Kade smiled wider, apparently smarter than that. "Can't live with a dead man on your conscience, eh?"

Sheepishly scratching his arm, the boy gave a half-nod. "A little of that too, yeah," he admitted. "I guess I feel kinda responsible."

Kade rapped his knuckles gently against the impenetrable bars, sighing. "Yes, you did sort of put me in this jam with your failed diplomacy." He laughed out the last word, and the sound had a mean edge to it. "But on the bright side, at least I have my very own comfy quarters to lounge about in while I wait to be put down like some animal. So, for that, thank you so much!"

A rumble of guilt settled low in Marco's belly, but he did his best to speak past it. "For now, nothing's changed. You're still a bargaining chip." He glanced behind his shoulder again, more out of habit than anything else now, and brought his voice lower. "But if you happen to be approached by a Pokémon waving around a fiery stick and babbling on about visions, be on your toes. I can't really fend her off from a distance."

Kade flinched at that last word, his gaze shifting before settling on the haversack strung across the boy's shoulder. "Going somewhere?"

"Looks that way," Marco replied flatly, trying to smirk but failing miserably. Hard as he tried to put on a witty front, he wasn't as thrilled about his promotion and new assignment as he was when he'd first received them. Spending the next several months stalking Giuseppe's half-brother from the shadows was sounding less and less glamorous the more he mentally prepped for it.

After another swig from the flask, Kade drew out a dramatic sigh. "If that's the case, I'll be dead the moment you leave town," he said. "Hate to burst your delusional bubble, but your friend is only sending you away so that he can get a clear bullseye at my head."

Instinct saw Marco vigorously shaking his head. "No. It won't be like that. He gave me his word."

A musical laugh bubbled out of the Rocket. "His word doesn't seem to be worth as much as you think. What makes you so sure he'll keep it this time?"

"He just will."

"But how do you _know_?"

"I just know, alright? For me, he'll…" He stopped himself. He took a breath, ready to speak again, but lost his nerve and let out a sigh instead. He drew the corner of his lip into his mouth and pressed his teeth into the flesh there to distract himself from the way his face heated up.

"Ah," Kade crooned, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smirk, and Marco could see the moment it clicked for him; that the friendship between the kingpin and his lieutenant was more than just a friendship.

Marco thought better of denying it and making himself look even more guilty. So, instead, he just laughed at Kade's quick brainwork. "Oh, come on. Is it that obvious?"

The Rocket gave a lazy shrug. "Let's just say I have a sense when it comes to these things."

Marco nodded, then just as quickly changed the subject. "Just hang tight. I can't free you, but I can keep you alive so long as Madame Boss cooperates. It's _her_ your life depends on now."

The other man clicked his tongue unfavorably. "You know, your friend has a real talent for moving goalposts."

The young smuggler blew out a weary exhale, neither agreeing or disagreeing. "Madame Boss claims she'll pay for you once she comes up with the funds, so let's just hope she's not pulling the wool over our eyes, for your sake."

With an offended toss of his head and a roll of his eyes, Kade let out a snort. "Is it really so outlandish to believe that she could actually care about another person?"

"Try convincing Giuseppe of that," Marco sniped back. Then, as he considered his own response, he narrowed his eyes. "On second thought, try convincing _me_ while you're at it. What is this hold she has on you? How can you serve beneath someone so cold and self-absorbed?"

Kade winked at him. "The same reason as you, babycakes: loyalty."

Marco felt his mouth twitch, yet no words came up to fight him on the point. He slumped his shoulders, practically folding on himself, head down, hair covering his damaged cheek as he weighed Kade's statement and found no flaw in it.

Kade funneled down the last of his booze, and as he began to speak again, his eyes seemed to wander on a cloud of thought. "When I was a young man fresh out of prep school, my father held a gala. His career had just relocated us to Kanto and he was eager to worm his way into political power. Since I'm his only child, he wanted to make a good match for me, mainly just to keep the gossip about me from circulating. The rumors weren't unfounded, of course, but I wasn't inclined to let my father discover as much and bring shame to the Sorhagen name."

Marco realized he was leaning forward, listening intently against his better judgment. He was Giuseppe's first lieutenant now, yet here he was fraternizing with the enemy, a renown conman and swindler; but his gut was telling him there was some worthwhile point or lesson to be found here.

"My father invited dozens of his colleagues and their beautiful young daughters to our estate," Kade went on. "I didn't want to go, as I was somewhat shy back then, but he practically dragged me to the ballroom. And to my surprise… it was lovely. I got along fabulously with everyone, made people smile, made people laugh. I had never felt to welcome, so accepted."

Marco saw the older man smile then. It wasn't a nefarious smirk or a conniving grin—no, it was a genuine, sincere, human smile.

But it faded as soon as it appeared, replaced by a genuine, sincere, human _frown_ instead. "Till I saw a few of the other guests snickering," he continued in a low growl. "And then they all started to laugh, even the girls. None of them could keep the game going any longer. They all knew my secret and they were toying with me. I was… humiliated, but also terrified my father might see."

Marco quirked a brow. "What did you do?"

"I tried to run away, but a young woman took me in her arms." A trace of that earlier smile lifted his expression. "'Don't let them see you cry,' she told me. 'They're just a bunch of sluts and scumbags, and sluts and scumbags aren't worth crying over.'"

Marco stared squinty-eyed at him until it all finally clicked into place. "That woman... was Rita."

The Rocket nodded, then laughed, a fond little squeal with a smile that lingered. "She danced with me and everyone watched speechless."

Marco chuckled with him, unable to help it. Proving naysayers wrong—he wasn't a stranger to those small victories. He remembered how so many in the mob had sneered and scoffed at him when Giuseppe first invited him into their ranks. Many still did, but what could they do now? He was Giuseppe's right hand.

Kade sighed fondly, still reliving his own moment of vindication. "She danced with me because she pitied me, yes, but she saved me from being a joke. And I've been loyal to her ever since."

Marco nodded, relating to him more than he expected or wanted to. Then he lifted his gaze to meet Kade's, frowning. "So… what if she doesn't save you _this_ time?"

Kade didn't answer right away. He paused before looking down and handing back the empty flask. "I wasn't lying, you know, when I said you'd have a better chance freezing over hell before squeezing a dime out of Rita Ketchum."

Marco bit into the side of his cheek. He didn't know why, but he'd hoped for another answer.

"If she decides to turn her back on me, then fine," Kade murmured with a resigned shrug of his skinny shoulders. "I'm prepared to make peace with that." His pensive eyes found Marco's again. "But tell me, will you be prepared to do the same if your beloved Giuseppe decides _you_ aren't worth much to _him_?"

"He wouldn't," Marco uttered almost immediately, yet the fear cracking through his voice was unmissable even to his own ears.

Kade smiled, a sad and pitying gesture more than a mocking thing. "I guess neither of us can really be sure, now, can we?"

Marco pressed his lips together and cast his head down, thinking on that. He could already tell that question was going to loom over him throughout his upcoming assignment. Even if he was leaving Celadon City as Giuseppe's most trusted confidant and friend, there was no guarantee he would return with that same fanfare.

As he got up to take his leave, Kade rose with him, grasping the bars. "Take my Starmie with you when you leave, won't you? Not like I'll be getting much use out of it anymore."

Marco thought about it, then nodded, deciding he owed at least that much to the person he'd screwed over. "I'll try and swipe it from lockup."

"Fabulous," Kade slurred in that same deflated tone, saying nothing else as he dragged himself back to his corner. The guilt gnawed harder inside Marco.

"Sorhagen," he uttered, the other's surname cracking in his throat. "I'm going to do my best to make this right."

The prisoner twisted halfway around and looked at him skeptically. "Let's hope your best is enough."

* * *

Wrapped, blue hands steadied the punching bag in front of Gio, and his Machoke peered around it. "Ma? Machoke?"

"Another round," Gio huffed, taking his stance again and bringing up his boxing gloves. "Just hold it still for me."

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The chain rattled and swayed from its hook, creaking with the heavy movement, even as Machoke held the bag in place. Swinging his arm back, Gio let fly with all his strength, following it up with another left hook.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Each time Gio's fists hit their mark, hot air rushed from his nose, his eyebrows furrowing deeper and deeper in focus. His teeth gritted against each other. His arms and muscles tensed with each punch. Sweat dripped from his bangs, rolling down his temples, his neck, his collarbone, soaking into his tank top until the fabric felt heavier on his skin.

His arms cried for a short break, but he didn't listen. Even when Machoke stepped away to rehydrate, he couldn't stop himself. Boxing felt good. The next best thing after riding for burning off steam. Saying goodbye to Delia and Tucker had left him with a notch in his chest. He hated the feeling so much that he needed to vent it out through his fists, to channel all the pent up frustration from the day before it could combust.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

Even as his body kept working the bag, throwing out blow after blow, he slipped deeper into his own thoughts. Thoughts of being alone with his worst self and worst impulses for months. Thoughts of working for Team Rocket. Thoughts of failing his father. Thoughts of failing himself and Delia and Tucker. Not just thoughts, even. Fears. Doubts. Feeding the monster inside, making him stronger, too strong keep caged up.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

He was halfway gone. Couldn't think straight, couldn't see past that red and white-hot rage—until he heard a violent rattle somewhere in front of him. He blinked and found he was swinging away at thin air. He didn't realize his own strength until he saw the heavy weight bag skidding across the floor, having been knocked clean off its hook. Diamond Dust eventually broke the bag's warpath, and though the motorcycle held steady from the impact, the suitcase Delia packed him was violently thrown from the seat. The luggage spilled onto the garage floor, rolling and sliding in every direction.

"Dammit," Gio cursed through clenched teeth, wiping the sweat from his brow and tearing off his gloves. He rushed across the garage to clean up his mess, Machoke joining him as he dropped to his knees and carelessly began shoving everything back into the suitcase. He didn't even bother refolding the clothes Delia had packed for him. He just wanted it all out of sight and out of mind so he wouldn't have to think about leaving in the morning.

When he realized he wasn't filling all the space in the duffel, he got on all fours and reached underneath the nearby tire rack, grasping around for any stragglers. He felt his hand land on something leathery, and pulled it out.

As he held it up to the light, the gears of his memory cranked into motion and he felt like that excitable fifteen-year-old kid again, waving his precious bag pouch triumphantly in the sun after almost losing it to the dark depths of the sea. To think there was actually a time when misplacing some pieces of tin had been his greatest fear. He'd been such a spoiled brat back then, taking everything for granted; his mother had always told him as much but he never listened.

Leaning back to sit cross-legged, he unfastened the pouch string and let all of his life's work spill onto his lap. One by one, he picked up the Gym Badges and threw back down. So many memories he'd tried to put behind him. Of course Delia would have packed these. She still believed his Ketchum roots held some sway over his destiny, despite all the walls and barriers he'd put up, despite his doubts and fears. She was rooting for a ghost, a fantasy. She only needed to turn on the lights to see the ugly truth hiding in front of her.

His hand paused when reaching for the last in the pile, hovering over a badge that was neither of Kanto or Johto origin. It was his official Pokémon League badge, half intact and rusty beyond recognition. He traced his finger along the rugged, uneven ridge where he'd cut with the blade so long ago, and couldn't stave off the smile tugging the corners of his mouth. This was _his_ half; he could tell just by how ugly it looked.

He closed his fist around the keepsake and brought it to close to his chest, almost as if to draw some unseen power or confidence boost from it that the others couldn't give. It wasn't _his_ half of the badge casting this effect on him though; it was the sudden reminder that Delia still carried the other half with her.

Then it hit him. _That_ was what all this was. That was why she'd packed his badges. He'd misread it as another desperate attempt to wash out his new identity with the old when, in truth, that wasn't her intention. This was just her harmless way of letting him know he was in her thoughts, that they were together even when apart, through rain and storm, through pain and hardship. He wouldn't be alone.

"Meeow?"

He jumped at the sound and twisted his torso around, grinning wider when he saw Meowth sauntering into the body shop. The Pokémon rubbed against his bare knee affectionately, throwing a smile right back up at him. Gio gave the feline a scratch on the head, then underneath the chin, earning an appreciative purr.

No, of course he wouldn't be alone, he thought with a chortle. Not as long as he had his furry sidekick with him.

"This won't be like our other journeys," he warned his loyal pet. "I hope you're ready."

"Meeeerow!"

"That makes one of us," Gio chuckled. "Let's try and make it home fast this time, alright? Don't let me get sidetracked."

"Meerow!"

Gio nodded, taking the Pokémon's word for it, and gingerly placed his Gym Badges back in their pouch and into the suitcase. Pushing to his feet, he motioned Machoke to recover the weight bag and went to retrieve his boxing gloves with a more upbeat attitude.

He stopped only to set down his bisected badge next to his rings, lingering for a moment when he realized he'd placed the keepsake right next to the silver band. He hastily corrected his error, sliding the ring to the other side of the workbench. He wasn't usually the superstitious type, but it didn't sit right with him having a piece of Delia and a piece of Metsuma Rocket occupying the same space. He'd thought he'd seen the last of that turf war, yet he was the one still fanning those flames by keeping and wearing that damn ring every day.

Legendaries, did he have a lot of shit to figure out.

A cold draft suddenly swept through the shop, digging into his bare shoulders and running down his spine. He spun around and was startled to find a white, wispy fog creeping in from the cracks of the garage doors and billowing forth to fill every space of the shop until it was all he could see. The ethereal hues of many eyes cut sharply out of the haze, accompanied by ghoulish laughs.

He relaxed at the sound, any lingering tension bleeding out of him as soon as he saw his aunt emerge from the fog. Her mischievous smile stretched so wide, dimples pressed into her cheeks, reminding him that her spooky, overdramatic entrances could only derive from the innocent mind of a prankster. He wondered how his usual run-of-the-mill Gym challengers would handle her macabre sense of humor in his absence.

"Not fond of knocking, huh?" he remarked, casually going back to his business. She cackled and levitated herself toward him, passing right through his body before he could even react. He spun around and chuffed out a laugh, quickly deducing from the demonstration that knocking on doors wasn't an option for her. "Point taken."

The astral projection snapped her fingers and the fog cleared, her Ghost Pokémon lifting it away and restoring the shop to normal. Machoke, now able to see where it was stepping, returned the punching bag to the center of the garage and placed it back on its hook for Gio.

"I would have thought you'd have discarded that," remarked Agatha. Gio glanced over his shoulder, following her eyes to the silver ring with the inscription, before shrugging and going back to pushing his hands into his boxing gloves.

"I've tried," he said, pitching his voice low and apathetic. He strode away and took his stance in front of his swinging target.

She hummed a thoughtful response from somewhere behind him. "Memories are fickle, aren't they? They come and go. And those that stay with us are so often of the unpleasant variety."

"Yup," he answered flatly, not interested in discussing the past and putting himself back in a shitty mood. His fist met the material of the bag with a hard, satisfying thump. The chain it was suspended by rattled, and he brought around a kick that landed just as solidly, hoping his nosy aunt might take the hint and realize he wasn't in the mindset for a heart-to-heart.

She hovered into his periphery, observing him in the thick of his session. "I realize it's late. I'm sorry I couldn't be here in the flesh. I would have left earlier, but I had another engagement. I'll try to be extra punctual in the morning."

"Don't worry, the Gym isn't going anywhere," he reasoned with a shrug, and moved back to his starting position, feeling his knuckles through the gloves and making sure nothing was dislocated. Then he was right back in the grind, tossing out punch after punch with the occasional kick thrown in.

"Neither is your father," she spoke up, her tone giving him pause more than the words themselves. He steadied the bag in front of him and sighed. He couldn't really blame her for prying after he'd left out so many details over the phone. He certainly couldn't duck her questions now, not in person, which she must have known as well as him. It had to be why she was here, why she had gone to the trouble of astral projecting herself from towns away, on the eve of his departure.

"I can't put this off any longer," he let it out in one sentence, an answer as true and honest as any lengthy explanation he could have given if he'd only had the willpower.

Her voice took on some odd mix of fascination and disbelief. "And you're certain he's alive? Had his soul passed through the higher dimensions, I would have sensed it."

The breath rushed out of him as he swung around to face her. "He might not be in _this_ world, but he's alive, Agatha. I saw him with my own eyes. And I promised I would go back for him."

She nodded once, a tender smile on her face. "I see. In that case, I wish you good fortune."

He paused to measure the sincerity in her words, wondering whether she actually believed in him or if she was just humoring him. He wasn't so sure she even saw an adult when she looked at him. She wouldn't have been the first. The world had forced him to grow up so fast that so many around him still weren't any wiser to it. He was twenty-one years old and even his own mother still referred to him as her live-at-home brat boy.

After deciding it didn't matter much what she thought, he walked back to the workbench for a towel and tossed it over his shoulder. "I left the keys to the Gym under the plant near the gate," he said, changing the subject, eyebrowing to the closed garage doors she'd casually passed through. "Not that you need them."

She gave a good-humored chuckle at his snark. "In truth, I was a little surprised you reached out to me at all. Of all the candidates you could have chosen to entrust your Gym with in your absence, I didn't imagine myself making the cut."

"Not a very long list," he confessed dryly, wrestling off his boxing gloves. He threw them down on the bench and wiped down his sweaty face with the towel. "I don't want to steal you away from the Elite Four if they can't spare you. You're sure it's no trouble?"

"Absolutely not. You're family. As is your father." The smile in her voice turned rueful. "Of course, if I possessed the means of saving him myself, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"I know," he said breathlessly as he finished drying his face. When he turned to face her, he sighed. "But this isn't your burden to bear."

"Maybe not," she admitted, mouth set into a frown. "But I still regret not doing more."

He cocked his head at her. He hadn't expected that.

She swept closer to him, her ghostly outline flickering with the sudden movement. "Your father frequently came to me for counsel in the days leading to his disappearance," she explained. "Knowing everything that I do now, I can't help but feel like I could have steered him away from that confrontation at Sky Pillar had I only been better able to understand his... dilemma."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Dilemma?"

Oddly, in some peculiar way, the answer was written all over her face. There was a story there, behind the pain in her eyes, the grief; and it was the first time Gio had ever seen his aunt so vulnerable. So much like _him_. Amazing. For the longest time, he'd thought he was the only living member of his family without the emotional depth of a Stunfisk—which wouldn't have been the worst thing right about now. He had always envied Agatha because of how impervious she seemed to human follies.

But in an ironic twist, she was haunted, just like him. He didn't need to know any more than that. He would respect both her privacy and his father's. It was a page that apparently didn't need to be turned, a page he wasn't sure he was brave enough to look at even if he wanted to. He'd already learned his fill from the journal, and that alone had taken a heavy toll on him.

"You'll probably be wanting a tour of the place," he quickly changed course, gesturing to the door leading back inside the Gym stadium.

"No need. I'm familiar enough with these grounds to find my way around." Almost like an afterthought, she turned to the far end of the garage where the concealed stairwell leading down to the kennels happened to reside, and casually added, "Though, I take it _that_ area will be off limits. No snooping and all that."

So there it was. She knew. And now _he_ knew that she knew. He tried to take a deep breath. Operative word being _tried_. It ended up sounding shallower and uneasier than he wanted, and she noticed.

"I won't pretend I don't at least have a sense of what's been going on with you these past few years," she confessed following his failure to conjure words. "After all, my sister and her thugs would never leave this city and Pallet undefiled without good reason."

He sighed. "Unfortunately," he muttered in agreement, scratching his brow in irritation.

She narrowed her eyes, studying him thoroughly. "She forced your hand, didn't she?"

He didn't say anything, clinging to silence instead, jaw tightening. She confirmed his unspoken answer with a pitying hum, but didn't say anything, just kept staring at him with that eerie, ages-old wisdom in her bright, young eyes. She had always been so ahead of her years, so keen and observant. That she and his mother came from the same genes still boggled him.

"Just answer me this," she said finally, sounding winded as she cast him another concerned look. "This exploit you're going on. Who is it _really_ for? Your mother, or your father?"

He forced his face into a more neutral expression. "Both," he answered. "But I'm also doing it for me. And Delia."

Her brow furrowed, but not in judgment—she was just concentrating very, very hard. Then, she said to him, "I learned a long time ago that there's more grey to the world than there is black or white."

He snorted a laugh, turning his head askance. "Easier said than experienced," he mumbled.

"Oh, I've experienced quite a bit," was her cryptic reply, dragging his gaze to her again. "My failure to help your father is just one of the many regrets I carry with me. I've made certain choices in my own life that I wish I hadn't, some that have haunted me for years… some more recent than others."

The words sank deep, even if they were only a half-confession. He couldn't be certain she even realized what she was confessing to, but he sure hadn't forgotten. He'd tried, but it was just one more thing that kept him up at nights, taunting him just as it had when he'd first heard it from Metsuma's lips the night he clashed with the crime lord. In fact, he'd almost hesitated to choose her to fill in as Gym Leader _because_ of this.

Now it was out in the air—mostly. As he reached for Metsuma's ring and slipped the silver-white band back over his finger, he wondered if he could get more out of her, if there even was more. He'd waited two years for an opportunity to confront her about this information; and while it could have just been an elaborate story spun by Metsuma to get under his skin, he couldn't run from it as if it were something more. He had to know for sure.

"I heard a disgusting lie about you a while back," he came out with it, avoiding her gaze. "I didn't want to believe it. I still don't."

A pause. "Just because you don't want to believe something doesn't make it a lie, Gio."

"You already know then."

"I will after you tell me."

He circled her once before stopping and unlodging the question from his throat. "What really happened at the Indigo Plateau Conference?"

She stared at him a moment but didn't speak. He couldn't help but shake the feeling he would be clobbering away at the punching bag again before the night was over.

"I'm not angry," he assured her, even if there was a firmness to his voice he couldn't quite get rid of. "I just want to know the truth."

Her blonde head tilted to one side. "You never once asked me until now. Why?"

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "I guess I was afraid to know the answer."

She nodded, even if that wasn't the whole truth. He knew he could have just bitten his tongue and overlooked the subject altogether. If he wasn't so uncertain he would make it back from Sinnoh alive, he probably might have. He suspected some subconscious part of him had sought this preemptive closure from the moment he'd decided to pick up the phone and ask her to hold down the fort.

"I only competed in that tournament to keep you from advancing to the finals." The revelation was deep, almost raspy with guilt. "Torino had information I needed, and that was their price."

Without thinking about it, Gio began to pace up and down the shop again. The more he stewed over the confession, the angrier he wanted to be, but couldn't. He just felt confused and blindsided more than anything. She'd violated his trust, sold him out to his enemies—but for what, specifically?

"Of course, I now realize it was all a ploy by Metsuma, whose identity as Torino's leader I was unaware of at the time," she went on. "He evidently knew failure to be your greatest insecurity, as well as the perfect fire to stoke your anger."

Gio swallowed down a lump of shame and nodded, looking back down at the ring on his finger and twisting it. "Even way back then he was grooming me and I couldn't see it," he murmured self-deprecatingly.

"I'm sorry, nephew," she said so quietly it was almost as if she wasn't speaking at all. "I'm so, so sorry. Though I was certain no true harm would come to you when I consented to the bargain, it doesn't excuse my actions. I was desperate and foolish when I should have had the sense not to be."

He drew in a steady breath, willed himself to move past the betrayal and speak clearly. "You said you needed information from Torino. What information?"

She went earnestly quiet, but he didn't let himself feel guilty over it. He didn't care if he was overstepping this time. She'd betrayed him and he deserved to know why.

"Agatha, just tell me," he gritted out, more a plea than a demand.

This time when she spoke, her back was turned to him. "It pertained to a friend of mine whom I lost years ago," she revealed. "She was also a friend of your father's, in fact. But I was no more capable of saving her than I was Clint."

He chewed on his lip, not sure what to make of that.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't tell Sam," she tacked on.

He jerked his head up, voicing his question with just his brows.

"He lost his wife and father to Torino," she explained herself, facing him again. "He would never forgive me if he knew. When the time is right, I'll be the one."

He nodded without really committing to the action, still overwhelmed by all this information dumped on him. If nothing else, this explained why she'd broken things off with Sam after Savile Island; she'd probably been unable to cope with the guilt.

"That friend I spoke of," she said, pulling him from his thoughts. "I would be lying if I told you my role in the Pokémon League's campaign to bring down Torino and Briskomy stemmed from unselfish motives. I was disgusted with Briskomy's practices, of course, but… I was really seeking justice for that friend. She, like yourself, walked the grey line between light and dark. She was a good person, but she was so damaged. And I couldn't help her."

Crossing his arms firmly over his chest, Gio lowered his gaze and drew his brows together, slowly coming to grasp that she was telling him all this for his benefit and well being, not simply to satisfy his curiosity. It was an ominous warning woven into a tragic telling. Whatever self-destructive tendencies she'd seen unfold in her fallen friend, she was seeing them again in him. She wasn't saying it outright, but he knew.

She must have seen the dots connect on his face because she was suddenly closer to him. "I'm in no position to pass judgment, Gio, but I will give you the same advice I gave to her once that, if she'd only taken it, might have saved her life."

He turned narrowed eyes on her. "What's that?"

"Get out of this while you can." Her gaze was heavy, voice low, tone bleak. "You and your mother are playing a very dangerous game. I know you mean well, but sweet Delia and the others won't see it that way once they learn of your dealings with Team Rocket. All secrets are ticking time bombs. And the fallout won't be pretty, I promise you."

"Damn it, you think I don't know that?" The words flew out of his mouth before he could mentally filter them. Though she didn't flinch at his tone, he worked to clean it up anyway, filling his lungs before going again. "Not a day goes by when that thought doesn't cross my mind, Agatha. I toss and turn every damn night wondering when that day might come. I've never been more afraid of anything in my life."

She raised a hand for silence. "Gio—"

"But that's just one more reason I have to go and do this," he continued over her, laying it all out plainly. "I can't just sit around and wait to lose everything. You want me to get out of this? Well, _this_ is how. That's all there is to it."

She lifted her chin to him. "What prize do you truly hope to find at the end of this road, nephew?"

He scrubbed a hand over his face and huffed out a breath. "Well, my father, for one. He's alive and I can help—"

"That wasn't my question."

Catching on, he closed his mouth, contemplating for a moment, before trying again. "A clean slate," he answered truthfully.

She nodded, more in understanding than agreement, and hovered past him. "Good intentions. Bad intentions. All the same, crime doesn't pay."

He flared his nostrils but didn't let wounded pride compel him to lash out. Even if her words lacked confidence in him, they weren't spoken in judgment; it was just a piece of caution from an aunt to her nephew, and he understood that well enough not to get worked up into a frenzy.

Instead, he firmed his jaw, clenched his teeth, and simply muttered like a casual observation, "You don't think I'll succeed."

She shrugged. "You might, if destiny wills it."

He grunted, not feeling especially motivated by the statement; if destiny wasn't his to determine, then it was no friend of his.

"But enough doom and gloom!" she sang out, banishing the tension with a decisive clap of her hands. "You have a nice trip, nephew. I promise you the Gym is in good hands."

"Yeah, sure." He schooled himself back to a calmer state and forced a small smile up at her. "Just... try not to scare off too many challengers while I'm away."

She threw her head back and cackled. "That, in itself, will be the real challenge!"

He turned away to put on the rest of his rings sitting on the workbench, snorting a laugh. When he turned back around to thank her again, she'd vanished, leaving only a wisp of fog behind. As if dramatic entrances weren't overkill already.

Throwing on his jacket and grabbing his bag and keys, he started gearing up for the ride home, not that he would be getting any sleep once he got there. Machoke pushed open one of the garage doors for him before giving him the all-clear thumbs up. The muscle Pokémon was to remain behind, along with a few of his other Pokémon, to help Agatha maintain the Gym. He'd opted to bring only the best of the best with him on his mission, Pokémon that had won him the most victories both inside the Gym and outside. Whatever threats waited for him in Sinnoh, he would be at full strength.

Meowth clung to his shoulder as he mounted Diamond Dust, but he paused to take one long, last sweeping glance at his crummy little body shop and wondered if he'd ever get to run it again, maybe as a changed man. Doubt and cynicism had nearly beaten him into submission lately, but he had to keep his head above the water while in Sinnoh. He had to keep his eyes on the prize—the day he'd finally free himself and his hometowns from Team Rocket's grip and take his first steps back to a normal life.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his half of the badge, and squeezed it so tight that it bit into his palm. He could do this. He would be back in no time. He could get that happy ending and prove Agatha wrong. He would muzzle the beast inside, somehow. There were no absolutes. He would shape his own destiny. _That_ was his own, personal quest, and it began now.

Firing up the engine and gripping the handlebars, he sped off into the night, away from his Gym and his business, and closer to that elusive clean slate.

* * *

The sun began to rise over Pallet Town and a wild Dodrio crowed from some distant rooftop, a sound that registered as a death knell in Tucker's ears, ushering in the first day of the rest of his life. He shuffled anxiously from foot to foot as he waited on the side of the dirt road for his prison transfer, his clammy hand clenching and unclenching his leather suitcase strap. Cubone stood with him, spacing off somewhere beyond the rolling pastures. Tucker wondered if the little guy was thinking about his stump in Viridian City, about whatever family had left him there.

That got Tucker thinking about his own home nest, and he beamed over his shoulder and up the hill where his dad's laboratory sat, its mighty wind turbine standing tall and glistening in the sun. It would all be his to look after someday. It was a generational duty; his dad always liked to remind him of that whenever he mouthed off about Pokémon Tech or suggested putting his studies on the back burner. But there was no way out of a contract he'd signed just by existing. He'd been locked into this career path the moment he came into the world.

Sometimes he wished he hadn't been born an Oak.

He let out a sigh and raked his free hand back and forth through his combed hair, messing it up the way he liked it. He loosened his uniform tie next and tugged at his collar, breathing heavily. His dad had wanted him to look his best when he arrived at the institute, but he didn't care anymore. He had never once willingly changed his look for a bunch of snobs at school, and heck, he sure wasn't gonna start now.

He heard gravel crushing underfoot and turned, smiling a sad smile when he saw Roland huffing and puffing up the road on anchoring feet. Just one more goodbye he'd been dreading.

"Should have called," panted the heavier boy when he finally reached his friend. Tucker opened his mouth to speak but Roland held up a finger, needing a moment to bend over and catch his breath.

Yeah, okay, Tucker snickered in his mind. He would miss _this_.

"So," Roland exhaled, recovering. "Guess this is it, huh?"

Tucker frowned. "Yeah."

Roland briefly eyed Cubone. "Already got my replacement lined up, I see."

"No one can replace you, Roland," Tucker said, smirking weakly at him.

"I guess," the larger boy sighed with a shrug, pretending not to care either way. "Still… it's gonna stink sitting alone during lunch period."

"Ditto," Tucker murmured. There was a disheartening silence between them until Tucker felt a thundering beneath his feet. He squinted down the road, spotting a dust cloud approaching. Out from it drove a yellow taxi cab, bouncing over the humps in the long dirt road. Tucker inhaled and exhaled. This was it. No turning back.

Roland's hand came down and slapped Tucker's back. "Looks like your chariot is here."

"Yeah," Tucker croaked, hesitating for a moment to pick up his suitcase. He exchanged quick glances with Cubone, wondering if the Pokémon's mind was in the same undecided limbo as his.

"Take care of yourself, Tuck," said Roland as the taxi pulled up and honked.

Tucker couldn't find his voice. He couldn't move. He flashed his gaze at Cubone again, then to the cab his dad had called for him—his one-way ticket to the rest of his life. He thought he'd thrown in the towel, thought he was ready to give into this… but something was holding him back. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, thoughts racing. Something in the back of his mind hollered through the maelstrom though, screaming for him not toe the line. It was a feeling, an instinct—that mysterious compass inside him switching on again, pointing his way just as it had when Cubone vanished.

"Tuck?" Roland's large hand was pressing on Tucker's shoulder again. "Tuck, what's wrong? Your ride is here!"

Tucker reopened his eyes, looked around, and let loose a laugh that made Roland jump. He yanked off his tie and threw it to the dirt, not even thinking about it, really. After stomping on it a couple of times, he turned to his Pokémon with a grin he couldn't control. "What the heck are we doing, Cubone? We can't actually go through with this!"

"Kew, kew!"

Nodding, Tucker let his feet do the thinking for him and marched right up to the cab, knocking on the passenger window. It rolled down to reveal a skinny, furry-faced cabbie in the driver seat.

"Oak, right?" the man belched.

Tucker nodded. "That's me!"

"Wonderful," the man sighed unenthusiastically, looking down at his hands as he unfolded a crumpled piece of paper. "Let's see here, I got you down for a one-way to Pokémon Tech. Is that right?"

"Nope," Tucker blurted out quickly and without any real plan. "That's a mistake. We have a different destination."

The cabbie shrugged and tore up the call slip. "Hey, your money, your call. Just make up your mind. I got other stops to make."

"Tucker!" Roland's voice twisted the blonde around. "What in Articuno are you doing?"

Tucker thought about it for a moment, remembering what Gio had said to him the day before, and repeating it verbatim. "I'm doing what I gotta do."

The larger boy threw up his arms, going into panic-mode. "Are you kidding me? Your dad straight-up forbade you from competing in Indigo League!"

Tucker shrugged. "Who said anything about the Indigo League?"

"He also said you couldn't just go wandering all over Kanto by yourself!"

"Who said anything about Kanto?" Tucker riddled, before flashing a smirk at Cubone. "And who said we would be by ourselves?"

"Tuck—"

"I'm tired of reading and hearing about the achievements of better people, Roland," Tucker cut him off, needing to get it all off his chest. "I'm done daydreaming. I'm done listening to stories. It's time for me to write my own story now."

Roland's mouth twisted into a sour line, but his lack of objection reassured Tucker. The blonde gave his friend a pat on the arm, calming him down some more. Because he still had one last ridiculous favor to ask of him.

Roland must have seen the question in his eyes because he groaned, "Oh no. What is it?"

Tucker didn't hold back. "If my dad suspects something, I need you to cover for me, at least until he leaves town."

"Tucker, I can't just—" Roland's nostrils flared before visibly relaxing. "Okay, fine, but what's your plan for when he _does_ realize you aren't at school?"

"I like to improvise," Tucker waved him off snarkily. "I'll keep you posted, don't sweat it."

Roland made a whining sound before finally slumping his shoulders in agreement. Grateful, Tucker threw his arms around his best friend in a hug, even if he couldn't quite reach all the way around.

"I owe you big time," he said.

"Yeah, yeah."

The cab honked again and Tucker scooped up his suitcase, tossing it right into the backseat of the car. He then grabbed Cubone and climbed in after his luggage. He didn't even stop to think about what he was doing. Not that it mattered. His mind was made up.

"Tuck," Roland called out to his friend one last time before the door could slam shut. "Just... uh, you know. Good luck and everything."

Tucker smiled at the ginger, nodded, then pulled the door shut. As the cab began to move, he watched as his friend waved goodbye outside the window, becoming further and further away the more road the vehicle put between them. The lab on the hill vanished soon after, and at that moment, Tucker knew his decision was sealed. Sure, he was still leaving home, but it was on _his_ terms now. His future was an unwritten book and only he could fill those pages.

"Where to, kid?" asked the driver.

Tucker twisted forward in his seat, securing Cubone in his lap. He looked down at his Pokémon, then forward again, a smile on his face. He'd only needed a split second to think it through.

"Vermilion City," he supplied. "We've got a boat to catch."

 **To Be Continued . . .**

* * *

 **A/N:** For anyone following the Enigma Chronicles: Echoes, you might have already guessed who that "friend" is that Agatha spoke of.

 **Next Chapter:** Gio and his gang set sail for the Sinnoh Region; Tucker and Cubone receive help from an unlikely ally; Delia takes up Sam on his offer.


	10. It Begins Again, Again

.

.

 **Short Change Hero**

 **Chapter 10: It Begins Again, Again**

Gio and his cronies were already two days gone when Teigan showed up at Delia's doorstep one night carrying a pillow and a tub of strawberry ice cream. Delia welcomed the company; she was so tired and beat, and her head hurt all the time. It would have been so easy to just sleep it off, but she wasn't sure she counted that as a real distraction. She needed a night like this to take her mind off her father's passing and unwind before her future hit her like a sledgehammer.

Teigan talked Delia's ear off most of the night. They hit all the usual topics: family, their Pokémon, annoying customers at work, the new hit jams making rounds on all the stations. They had already polished off all the ice cream halfway through 'Into the Groove' and spent the other half competing in a dance-off that was too embarrassing to declare a serious winner. Delia had never been much for dancing anyway; she'd tried to pick up some steps at the diner whenever it was dead, but her rendition of the Hustle always looked like a drunken Ludicolo compared to the music videos. Not to mention disco was dying fad.

They went for another few songs without much improvement. When Teigan eventually slumped to the floor from both dancing and laughing too hard, Delia took it as an admission of defeat, grabbing her hairbrush off the dresser and singing a victory solo into it. It took Delia's mother banging on the bedroom door to finally make them pipe down and remind them they weren't kids. Even as Delia climbed back up on her bed and dialed down the boombox on the windowsill, she'd still catch herself giggling. She couldn't remember the last time she'd let loose and laughed like this.

"So have you heard from Gio?" Teigan had asked at some point from the floor, propped up on her elbows with her nose buried in the latest Pokémon Friends issue.

As Delia quietly brushed her own hair, a frown tugged at her lips at the unwanted reminder that her boyfriend was cities apart from her. She had almost forgotten to answer the question until the other girl reached up and nudged the edge of her bed. Blinking out of her daze, Delia cleared her throat. "Not since we said goodbye, no."

The blue-haired girl hummed out a thoughtful tune as she licked her fingertip and flipped the next page of her magazine. "Bet he's already out on the water by now," she said distractedly.

Delia found herself nodding. "I'm sure he'll call just as soon as he can."

"Should have gone with him," the other girl sighed, sounding disappointed. "Arceus knows you could use a little excitement in your life."

Delia set down her brush, shaking her head. "I would just get in the way."

Teigan threw an unimpressed look up at her before letting it go. "So," she blew out a breath. "It's back to the grind for you then, huh?"

Delia considered this with her head tipped. "I didn't say _that_ ," she said after a beat, a smirk coming to her mouth.

This got her friend's attention, enough to make her sit up on her knees and snap the magazine shut. "Alright. Spill it."

Delia giggled into her hand. "I won't go into the details since I still don't fully understand them myself, but... my mother came into some money recently."

"How much?"

"Definitely enough," Delia answered, purposely vague. Teigan immediately understood with an eager grin.

"Okay, so what's the catch?"

"No catch," Delia said, even as a brand new frown undercut her words. "That's… what makes all of this so scary. For the first time in a long time, I can finally choose my own path."

There was a pause from the spunkier girl. "Want my advice?"

"Yes, please," Delia blurted out without really thinking. When she heard the desperation in her own voice, she winced. Thankfully it wasn't in Teigan's nature to poke fun when it wasn't desired.

Hopping up on the bed next to Delia, Teigan looked her friend straight in the eye, her face a shade too serious. "Get the hell out of Pallet Town," she told her, no filter as usual. "I'm saying this as your friend, alright? You _need_ to get a life."

Delia worried her bottom lip. "But my mother—"

"Your mother can afford to hire some extra hands at the diner," Teigan cut her down, rightly; she knew as well as Delia the small fortune inherited would see to that. "Plus, I'll still be putting in hours. I'll help her hold down the fort."

Delia took her friend's hands, grateful for the offer but a little hesitant to dump all her burdens on someone else. "That isn't fair to ask of you. Don't you want a life of your own?"

A sad smile slowly formed on Teigan's mouth, but she gave Delia's hand a reassuring and decided squeeze. " _This_ is my life now."

After a pause, Delia nodded. She'd heard it before, but she still didn't like the truth in it, the finality of it. Teigan had made some questionable choices in her life, but she'd made amends for them. It was cruel and unfair that her brief time with Torino had all but erased those possibilities.

"It doesn't have to be _your_ life though," Teigan reminded.

Delia exhaled heavily through her nose, again nodding. Teigan's mind was made up, and now hers was too. She could no longer shoo away the destiny calling to her; her place wasn't in Pallet Town anymore. She understood that now. She'd just needed to hear someone other than Sam give her that extra push. And now all that was left was to find the courage to tell her mother.

* * *

Gio pressed up against the ship's rail, almost as if to throw his weight against the freighter's course as it pulled away from the harbor. It hadn't hit him that he was leaving Kanto behind until the moment he and his gang boarded. He was sailing into uncharted waters now with no life-preserver like Delia to keep him afloat, with no compass beyond a sliver of hope that he'd find a way to save both his father and his future.

As the Vermilion Port slipped further and further into the distance, he forced himself to look away, at anything, anywhere besides the hard truth staring him in the face. He watched the water instead, frothing with lacy white seafoam where it yielded to the steady course of the freighter; a perfect mirror of the morning sky overhead, bending in an endless curve, with barely a brushstroke of clouds to soften the harsh blue. The only thing that stood out was a single island some miles out, sitting pretty and familiar on the horizon beneath the sky's awning, circled by a sandy white beach and crowned with rich green treetops.

He'd been there once, a long time ago. The memories were flowing back.

The shuffling of boots on metal grating snapped him out of the past, and he turned his head on his shoulders. Behind him, Archer and two henchmen were coming up the ship's gangway sporting Team Rocket uniforms, and suddenly the passage of time felt unignorable. It was hitting him all over again what he had agreed to in that diner with his mother.

Emerging from below deck just in time to be received by the Rocket commando was Gio's own crew of cronies, appearing one by one, none of them looking particularly thrilled at the prospect of working with a turncoat. In their eyes, Archer had betrayed them twice; once when he'd abandoned their tiny group all those years ago, and again when he'd sold his soul to Team Rocket. Gio partially blamed himself; all his badmouthing Team Rocket lately had probably stoked the flames a little.

"Good morning," Archer addressed them all formally, striking a military stance that even Gio couldn't help but smirk at. Seeing Archer act so tough and in charge was still an adjustment for him. "It's good to see you all again. Feel free to let out your Pokémon. It'll be a while before we reach Sunyshore City."

Petrel came to stand before Archer, practically towering over him. "Well, look at you, a bigshot Team Rocket commando wearing his bigshot Team Rocket uniform," he snarked. "Is it lonely on your pedestal? Was it worth forgetting your roots? How does it feel to be a whipped dog?"

"Lay off him, Petrel," Gio warned, not in the mood to break up a brawl. To Gio's surprise, Archer held up a hand to decline his protection.

"It's perfectly fine," the commando said through his smile, looking Petrel up and down. "From one whipped dog to another, I should inform you—"

The taller man threw up his palms defensively. "Hey, whoa there! Nothing whipped about me, buster!"

Archer lolled his head. "You take orders, don't you?"

He shrugged. "Yeah... from Giovanni."

"Just as I take orders from his mother."

Petrel sniffed. "Sure, but _you_ do it for a paycheck."

Quick on the draw, Archer lifted his brows in mock surprise. "Oh, I see. So you're just along for the ride then, is that it? Very noble of you."

Petrel opened his mouth, then clicked it shut, realizing he'd been schooled. "Well played," he yielded with a biting chuckle, then shouldered past his old friend to wander the freighter.

Stepping up in Petrel's place was Ariana, doing her best to look unimpressed with her childhood flame. "Archibald," she spat his full name.

"Ariana," he returned politely, not letting the jab get to him. The air was tense, suddenly, and Gio didn't have the death wish to butt in on this one.

Saying nothing more to Archer, she moved to Gio and leaned toward his ear to whisper, loudly and seductively, "Let me know if you need anything."

Gio willed a poker face until she was gone, then immediately turned to his friend to clarify, "It's not what you think."

"Aye, he prefers th' braw lassies," Rocco's voice surfaced from below deck, followed soon after by the man himself, still wearing his helmet and dirty biker gloves. By the looks, he'd been the loser of an odds and even game to decide who would secure the motorcycles inside their shipping containers.

Archer stuck out his hand to the newcomer. "You must be Rocco."

"Sharp lad. Good chat." The Scot simply patted Archer's shoulder, leaving a grease smudge on his uniform before strolling right past him. "Ye got any whiskey aroond here? Gonna be a lang trip."

As Archer brushed off the smudge, Gio hung his head low, somewhat embarrassed. His gang had been hailed as the best of the best, yet his key men—the ones he'd personally vouched for and hand-picked for this operation—couldn't even muster a shred of professional courtesy. They were treating Archer like he was their punching bag, not their superior. And it wasn't a good look for Gio.

The last to make roll call was Proto, fashionably and unapologetically late. He held up his hand to the sunlight, squinting hard. He held a book snug in his other arm, leather-bound with deckled edges, probably another mystery novel for his curious brain to gorge on. Since Proto was typically the mellow one of the bunch, he couldn't come off any worse than Petrel, Ariana, and Rocco—or so Gio he hoped.

"You sure sprouted, Proton," Archer acknowledged the youngest of Gio's cronies. "I remember back when—"

Proto waved him off with a sigh. "It's okay, we don't need to have a moment. I remember you just fine. Now leave me in peace."

Gio winced. So much for _that._

Archer, to his credit, remained cool and unbothered as Proton brushed past him to find a spot with a nice view of the ocean to buckle down and read.

"Sorry for the cold reception," Gio cleared his throat, scratching behind his neck self-consciously. Archer spun to him with an indifferent shrug.

"Actually, that went about how I expected it would," the younger man said. "It's understandable. I'm an outsider to them now. They don't trust my agenda."

Gio glared past his friend toward the two Rocket grunts standing nearby, then refocused. "They don't trust Team Rocket in general. Don't take it too personally."

Taking the hint, Archer dismissed his lackeys with a fleeting hand gesture and moved to stand beside his friend. "As long as your gang performs well in Sinnoh, they don't have to like me. But do you suppose this mission will prove to be more than they can handle?"

Gio twisted against the rail to face Kanto's shrinking mainland again, fishing out a lighter and a carton of smokes from his jacket pocket. "No one's even told us what the mission is," he said, the words spoken around his cigarette as he lit it. "This good Samaritan in Sunyshore we're supposed to meet with really didn't share _any_ details?"

"None that I know of," Archer replied, sounding equally annoyed. "He only asked that your mother send in her best men." Spotting Meowth lazing on a nearby packing crate, he added, "And best Pokémon."

Gio lifted his shoulders in a shrug and sneered. "Figures."

"If nothing else," the smaller man sighed, sliding a thoughtful look Gio's way, "working alongside Team Rocket in some strange land should be an interesting experience for Petrel and the rest of them."

"Sure, I guess," Gio considered, cigarette sitting between his thumb and forefinger. A curl of smoke caught the breeze, the smell barely grazing the salt-tinged spray. "But it's not who or what they're up against that has them on edge. It's leaving the home turf."

Archer frowned, leaning against the rail with him and cutting him a concerned glance. "And you? How are you handling all of this?"

Gio blew out a smoke ring, gazing out across the glittering water until his eye once again caught that gem of white and green on the horizon. He smirked at the memory. "The last time I left Vermilion City I ended up shipwrecked on an island with Delia."

Archer laughed, possibly thinking it a joke. Gio laughed with him. Too often did he himself look back on those wild adventures and wonder if some other person had lived them. He could never bring himself to believe it though. Being stranded on that island with Delia had felt like a dream, but it was probably one of his most cherished memories.

His hands found his pockets, and he heaved an affected sigh. "I don't mind charting new territory," he answered Archer's question proper. "I've done it before. It's just the idea of her not being there with me that cuts deep."

The other man grinned. "You never did tell me about her."

Gio broke out a little smile, unsure where to start. He rolled his head back on his shoulders and let it all out in a single breath. "She's perfect, Archer. She's everything I don't deserve, and more."

"Naethin' more sickenin' than a man in loove," Rocco remarked nearby, having overheard the conversation. Gio shot the eavesdropper a glare until he finally got up and amscrayed.

Off Rocco's remark, Archer snickered, "Giovanni Ketchum in love? I never thought I'd see the day."

Gio opened his mouth, reflexive denial on the tip of his tongue until he remembered how old they were and how many years had gone by since they were a couple of immature schoolboys grossed out by girls and dating and all that. He took another drag from his cigarette to dull the edge of his thoughts.

After a pause, he found the words, honest and to the point. "I can't picture a future without her in it, Archer."

"Do I hear wedding bells?" the commando teased.

"Not anytime soon, at this rate."

Archer shrugged one shoulder. "Patience. If it's meant to be, then it _will_ be."

"Speaking of which," Gio said through a smirk, tilting his chin up. Archer followed his gaze to the cabin door Ariana had left through, then caught on with a bitter laugh.

"Now _you're_ dreaming," he scoffed, thin, teal brows pushing up high on his forehead as he faced Gio again. "Besides, she seems rather taken with another."

Gio half startled, then laughed. "Get real. She's just using me to make you jealous, even if she doesn't know it."

Facing the stern of the ship again, Archer replied dryly, "A wasted effort."

Gio shrugged, not quite convinced, and took another drag. "It could work. A relationship might be good for you."

"Believe me, that's a complication I can do without." The words hung ambiguously between them for a second too long. Archer grinned that pitying grin and clapped Gio on the arm. "When I see what desire does to people and what it's done to our world throughout history, I am glad to have no part in it."

The answer threw Gio for such a loop that he had to repeat it over in his head several times before it finally settled. Legendaries, his friend was more question mark than man now. He'd always been a little strange, but now he just sounded barking mad, speaking in riddles and ciphers and acting so mysterious.

"And besides," his friend carried on with the thought, "the absence of desire leaves one to reap other rewards."

Gio quirked a brow. "Such as?"

Archer just grinned by way of answering, as if there was some secret Gio was supposed to be in on. Before Gio could press him, a Rocket grunt approached.

"Sir," the flunky addressed Archer. "We have what you asked for below deck."

"Very good," Archer said with a nod, stepping around his friend in a suspicious hurry. "You'll have to excuse me, Gio. There's something I must attend to."

Gio whirled, quietly watching the younger man start off toward whatever was so damn important waiting for him below. Then, plucking the cigarette from his mouth, he yelled out, "Archer!"

The Rocket Commando halted, turned. "Yes?"

"Are you happy with Team Rocket?" Gio wasn't sure why he'd asked it, yet it just sort of flew out of him.

Archer seemed to give the matter serious thought, staring down the stern of the ship. "Well, happiness is a delicate equation, Gio," he said after a moment, cleverly answering the question without really answering it.

Gio snorted, finding something funny about that response. "That's deep," he busted the other's chops. "You should embroider that on a pillow or something."

Archer gave a slight smirk. "Go on, mock away," he invited, then carried on on his way.

As Gio turned to toss his cigarette overboard, he caught Proto further down the railing peeking at Archer from above his book. Almost to no one in particular, the boy pondered aloud, "Wonder if he's hiding something."

Gio frowned. Rather than deny the accusation, he asked quietly, "What makes you say that?"

Proto flinched at Gio's voice. "Hmm? Oh, did I say that out loud? Whoops." Then, as if nothing had been said, he flipped the page of his novel and lost himself in the words again.

But Gio was still left wondering.

* * *

The laboratory seemed awfully quiet without Tucker around, Delia noted as she paced around the common room. She half-expected the twelve-year-old to pop around the corner at any moment and chat her up in the usual attempt to get out of chores and homework. She had been gullible enough to buy into it the first handful of times until she'd caught Gio snickering from the corner of her eye one day and understood who the real mastermind behind Tucker's shenanigans was. Of course, she'd had the last laugh after Sam ended up sitting them both down and giving them the lecture of a lifetime.

She missed those days.

Before she could drift away on another memory cloud, the patter of paws scrambling over tile floors spun her to attention. The next thing she knew was being tackled to the sofa by Marlee and Luxio, both of them climbing over her lap and smothering her face with kisses. Her head dodged left and right, laughter lodged deep in her throat as she struggled to keep her mouth and eyes closed against the sloppy, wet ambush. She hadn't been to see either of them in some time, so she'd had this coming, but gosh, what a reception!

Delia found a moment to breathe when Luxio got greedy and started snapping at the Espeon for trying to hog her. Remembering to be firm with the spark Pokémon, Delia held up her finger and sharpened her voice a notch. "Luxio, remember your manners! You have to learn to share!"

"Luxxx," the Pokémon murmured apologetically, snuggling into Delia's lap but mindful to leave just enough space for Marlee to rest her head. Delia smiled at the gesture, finding relief in the fact that her Pokémon Training wasn't _too_ rusty. She'd feared time away from Luxio might have turned the little lynx back into a complete grouch, but thankfully Sam hadn't let that happen.

After her father took ill, working to make ends meet had eaten up all her time, so she'd made the hard decision to keep all her Pokémon barring Cuddles at the laboratory with Sam. It seemed a better alternative than keeping them pent up in Pokéballs. That just wouldn't have been fair to them, especially Marlee; she refused to dishonor Kyden's memory by letting his last surviving Pokémon waste away. At least with Sam, the sprightly Espeon could roam the wide, open space of the corral whenever she pleased, socialize with other Pokémon, and eat the tastiest kinds of food. No cares in the world.

The more Delia thought about it, the more she wished she herself was a Pokémon.

Shooing away that mental image, she came to remember why she'd come by the lab in the first place. She'd called Sam ahead of her visit, letting him know she would be picking up Marlee and Luxio, though she'd been a little too embarrassed to explain why. While she'd never been as good a Pokémon Trainer as Gio, she couldn't deny she was a little out of practice in the battling department. And if Gio was right and Celadon City truly was dangerous territory, she would need some Pokémon by her side.

"I hope you two have been getting lots of exercise," she said to the pair. They certainly were going to need it.

"Luxxx!"

"Vwee!"

"Plenty," Sam cheerily chimed in, finally making his entrance as he carried a pitcher of lemonade over to the table between the two sofas. "Although I must admit, they were getting far more exercise when Tucker was still around. He never failed to wear them out."

Giggling, Delia pet both her Pokémon's heads as they cuddled into her lap, then looked back up toward her friend as he poured her a glass. "I'm so grateful to him and to you for watching over them, Sam."

"I should be thanking _you_ ," Sam laughed, leaning back to pour his own lemonade before plunking down on the couch opposite her. "Espeon and Luxio aren't native species to the Kanto Region, so studying them has been a real treat. And rest assured, Tucker was more than happy to have more Pokémon to bond with."

Delia took a small sip of her lemonade before replying. "Speaking of Tucker, have you heard from him at all?"

Sam stiffened and straightened an inch in his seat, something Delia wasn't expecting. "He promised he'd call once he arrived at Pokémon Tech, but so far, nothing."

Reading the concern in the young professor's posture, Delia offered him an encouraging smile. "Give him time. I'm sure he's just adjusting to the move."

The young professor shrugged. "Maybe he's still angry with me," he said, jokily, but with an unnerved strain in his voice.

Delia raised a brow. "I thought you two patched things up."

"I thought so as well," sighed Sam, "but for him to call up his old schoolmate before checking in with his own father seems… puzzling."

"He talked to Roland?" she wondered.

He gave a rigid nod whilst stroking his chin. "According to Roland, yes. Isn't it odd?"

Delia felt a pang of familiar empathy at his frustration. She'd been in his shoes every time she suspected Gio of keeping secrets from her. Maybe Sam hadn't been completely wrong about Gio rubbing off on the boy after all, though she dared not admit as much. If Tucker was even half as mischievous as Gio, though, then chances were he'd probably never taken that cab to Pokémon Tech in the first place. It was a bold assumption, and one she certainly wasn't going to plant in Sam's head; the poor man already had enough on his plate, what with a brand new job waiting for him. He would be leaving in the morning, and she had no intention of being left behind.

Something told her he suspected as much. "Oh, well," Sam let go of his worries on a breezy sigh. He gathered himself, and with a laugh and a charming smile, added, "He'll be seeing plenty of me soon anyway. Once I get settled in Celadon City, I'll drive up to the institute and pay him a visit."

Seeing her opening, Delia set down her lemonade on the coffee table and cleared her throat. "Speaking of Celadon…"

Sam slowly lowered his own glass when her sentence trailed off, and quirked a brow. "Delia?"

Delia withdrew slightly into her shoulders, her voice suddenly shy and quiet despite her efforts. "By any chance, is your offer still on the table? About me coming with you to the university?"

Her old friend was suddenly leaning forward with a smile that split his face. "Of course it is! It'll be a delight to have you along! What changed your mind?"

"It's... a long story," she answered vaguely, deciding he didn't need to know about Gio and all the money he'd left her. She didn't want to give him any more reason to be suspicious of her boyfriend.

He didn't seem to notice. "Did your mother give you her blessing?"

"I haven't told her yet," she confessed, unable to keep the dread from her voice; for a moment, she wondered if maybe she'd also come to the lab as a way to put off that inevitable confrontation.

He cocked his head. "What about Gio? What does he think about this?"

She shrugged, knowing only so many words could explain that one anymore. "Gio needs to focus on Gio right now," she said, draping her arms around both her Pokémon, remembering that they were extensions of her strength, in a way, and all it could accomplish. "And I need to focus on me. I can't wait around for him to come home. I need to live my own life."

Without argument, Sam lifted his lemonade in a toast. "To new beginnings then."

She smiled and lifted her own glass, even if the weight of her decision still hadn't fully settled in her gut yet. The idea of leaving Pallet Town still left her with Butterfrees in her stomach. It was scary, but also exciting in a way. The last two times she'd left home had been on Gio's terms; she'd mostly just tagged along for the ride, a passenger behind the driver's seat. But now the wheel was hers. Sure, going off to school wouldn't be as exciting as blowing up a Briskoball factory or outrunning an airship full of Pokémon hunters, but it was still a journey that would be hers alone to see through and grow from.

And that was enough in her eyes to make it worth it.

* * *

A light ocean breeze blew through Tucker's hair as he climbed out of the cab and soaked in the sun spangled sights of Vermilion City, breathing in that salty air. The smell of freedom! The smell of new beginnings! The smell of... chum and Magikarp. Oh well, he reasoned with a shrug and a bounce in his step. Fanfare or not, this would be where the story of his Pokémon Training career began. Once he became a Pokémon Master, he'd look back on this day as the first page in his story book.

As if to challenge him on that, a ship horn bellowed farewell from the docks. Remembering why he was there, he snatched up Cubone in one hand and his suitcase with the other, his feet doing the thinking for him as they carried him all the way to the Vermilion Harbor. He passed several restaurants and Pokémon Centers in his hurry; after being pent up in a stuffy, smelly cab for hours on end, stopping for a quick rest and bite to eat was mighty tempting. He thought he heard his stomach growling at one point, but then realized it was Cubone's. The little guy had eaten all their snacks in the cab, yet had somehow worked up an appetite again.

It would have to wait though. After coming this far, he couldn't risk being found out and sent back to his father.

The closer they got to the docks, the bigger the crowd of civilians and dock workers blocking his path grew. He had to stand on his tippy toes to see above their heads, only getting a glimpse of a few ferries and cruise ships coasting away. He chewed on his bottom lip, that tingly sixth sense of his telling him Gio wasn't on board any of those. And if that was true, he couldn't let the next ship set sail without him.

"Next!" a deep but spent voice called out.

Tucker pivoted sharply at the sound and spotted a ticket kiosk manned by a large woman. Not missing a beat, he rushed over and he started pushing himself through the long line of people. "Excuse me! Sorry, folks! I just really need to get on the water as soon as possible!"

When he came to the front of the line, the agent in the kiosk gave him a sour look. "Can I help you?"

"Hiya!" he greeted in a friendly, outgoing language that the woman apparently didn't speak. So he cleared his throat and set Cubone down on the ground, whispering to the Pokémon, "Stay put for sec, alright?"

"Keww!"

Facing the woman again, Tucker asked, "When does the ferry to the Sinnoh Region leave port, ma'am?"

"Four hours ago."

He deflated hearing that. "What? You mean we missed it?"

She shrugged. "Tough break, kid."

He didn't hold back groan. "Well, how long do we have to wait until it gets back?"

She crossed her arms, letting him know he was trying her patience. "As far as I know, that cruise liner is expected to dock outside the Sinnoh Resort Area for at least a week."

He drummed his fingers on the booth, restless, desperate. "Okay, well, do you have a passenger list for that cruise, by any chance?"

She snorted a laugh, not taking him seriously. "Oh, come on, kid. I can't share that information with you."

"Then don't," he said breathlessly, practically leaning into the window now. "Just tell me if there's anyone with the last name Sakaki on board? Please?"

"Seriously, kid?" Tucker held the woman's gaze without flinching, and after a brief staring contest, the woman rubbed her eyes and fished out what must have been the list. She ran her pudgy finger down it before making a discouraging clicking sound with her tongue. "Nope. Don't see it."

"Are you sure? Maybe if you check again—"

"Look, kid," she enunciated, slapping her hands down in front of her. "If your friend's not on the list, he's not on board that ship. Probably never even left Kanto."

"He did!" Tucker protested.

"How do you know?"

Tucker opened and closed his mouth several times. "I... don't know how," he croaked, scratching that spot on the nape of his neck where the tingly feeling was usually strongest. "Just this feeling I have."

The lady lowered her head a fraction, giving him an arch, are-you-kidding stare, before letting out a sigh. "Look, hon, it's hot. I'm tired. And there's still a line of people behind you I gotta get through, so why don't—"

Probably at his own peril, he pressed her, "Are there really no other ships departing for Sinnoh that we can board?"

She inhaled sharply through flaring nostrils, then, maybe taking pity on him, or maybe just to get rid of him, she peeked down at the docket again. "Let's see," she exhaled, letting her finger guide her eyes. "The S.S. Anne is scheduled to make a brief stop in Canalave City during its next round trip, but it doesn't depart for another two days. That's the best I can do for you."

He frowned. "Two whole days, huh?"

"You want me to book you passage or not?"

Knowing when to throw in the towel and take what he could get, he nodded. "Sure, I guess," he grumbled. "One ticket please."

She leaned her head back, eyeing him sharply. "You can pay for it, can't you?"

He started to nod until he patted down his pockets and realized they were empty. Dang it. He'd only been given enough money to pay for the cab ride.

"I'm waiting," the woman said, leering at him.

He gave a guilty little laugh. "Uh… see… funny story."

"No money, no ticket," she laid it out plain and simple.

"Aww, come on!" he whined, since that usually worked wonders back home. "I'm just starting my Pokémon journey! Can't you cut me some slack?"

"Wait, you're a Pokémon Trainer?" Without rhyme or reason, her tune suddenly changed, accompanied by an overblown smile that almost scared Tucker out of his skin. "Well, why didn't you just say so? All Pokémon Trainers can board the S.S. Anne free of charge!"

He blinked at her. "Seriously?"

"Of course! One complimentary ticket coming right up!"

He fist-pumped the air when it felt safe enough to celebrate. "Yeah! Now that's more like it!"

"I'll just need to see your Trainer's license before I can stamp your ticket," she said, and suddenly, panic built up in his chest again.

"License," he coughed. "Right. Of course."

Her smile vanished, her brow high. "You are a registered Pokémon Trainer, aren't you?"

Trying to play it smooth, he flashed his teeth in a quick smile and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "You know what? I think I left my license in the cab. Why don't I just—"

"What seems to be the trouble?" asked another stern, female voice. Tucker turned his body halfway and saw Officer Jenny approaching. Apparently someone had narked him out for holding up the line.

"This young man is carrying a Pokémon without a license," the agent at the booth accused, catching Tucker off guard. He didn't even get a chance to defend himself before Jenny was in his personal space, staring down her nose at him, hands on her hips.

"Is that right?" she grilled him. "How do we know you didn't steal that Cubone?"

He took a step back, holding up his palms. "Look, we don't want any trouble! In fact, forget the ticket! Who needs a boat? I'll just swim to Sinnoh! Good exercise!"

Jenny stayed right in his face though. "You're not going anywhere until you provide proof that you're this Cubone's Trainer!"

"Of course I'm his Trainer!" he exclaimed, looking down toward his feet. "Cubone, tell them! Tell them I'm…" He trailed off when he saw Cubone waddling off into the crowd, straight toward a billboard with a biscuit stick advertisement plastered all over it. Oh, just perfect. He should have seen that coming. The Pokémon was just following his stomach, but to Jenny, of course it was going to look like a Pokémon fleeing from its captor.

"Just as I thought!" she hollered, whipping out her handcuffs. "A Pokémon thief!"

"Wait, no, I'm not—"

"Who do you work for? Team Rocket? The Saffron Mafia?" She didn't let him get a word out, let alone a breath, before snatching his wrist and pulling him to her. "I'm gonna have to take you in for questioning, young man!"

Thinking on his feet, he took in a relaxed breath and dipped his head in a show of surrender. "Okay, okay, you caught me." Before she could slap the cuffs around his wrists, he pointed upward with his free hand and sighed, "I guess I can't steal that Moltres now."

Both Jenny and the ticket holder threw their gazes to the sky, providing Tucker the perfect opportunity to yank his arm free, grab his suitcase, and slip away into the crowd nearby.

"Hey, get back here!" he heard Jenny yell from somewhere behind him.

As he fled, he couldn't stop smiling at how that had actually worked; it seemed like something Gio would have done to get out of a tight spot, so why not him too? He didn't look back and kept weaving between bodies of people and Pokémon until he finally caught up to Cubone. He snatched up his Pokémon without breaking a step and continued sprinting along the docks. He felt a little bad about duping Jenny, but she'd forced his hand. She would have booked him, identified him, and taken him straight back to his dad.

And no way was he going back to Pallet Town now.

The waterfront they followed ran a mile or so before they eventually found themselves wandering into a less lively and less populated district, and suddenly, Tucker felt like they were sticking out too much. Something was off about this side of the marina compared to the main harbor; it was seedier, grimier, and it stunk of rotten Karp.

"We definitely lost em', Cubone," Tucker said, glancing over his shoulder, before nervously looking forward again. He swallowed down a hard lump at the sight of broken-down shops and algae-covered boats sitting on the water. Not to mention leering eyes from the shadows. "But I think we walked into the shady part of town."

"Kew," the Pokémon whimpered, pulling Tucker's arm tighter around his tiny waist.

Tucker laughed. "Don't worry, I'll protect you." Hearing himself, he stopped in his tracks. "Wait a sec, you're the Pokémon here! _You_ should be protecting _me_!"

"Kew?"

He sighed, scanning around, before spotting what looked like a ramshackle tavern sitting land-side across some boatyard docks. Judging from the number of boats anchored near it, he was willing to bet it was a popular bar for sailors and fishermen types. That worked for him; he didn't see why he couldn't just _hitch_ a ride to Sinnoh. He remembered hearing from his dad about an old sea captain named Abet who had sailed Gio and his friends out of Vermilion City at no charge, so maybe sailors around these parts just had a soft spot for kids or something. There was only one way to find out; with the local police after him now anyway, he had nothing to lose.

The only problem was the bouncer and his Poliwrath standing post outside the bar. After grinding his teeth a bit and reviewing his options, a lightbulb in his head switched on. "I've got an idea," he said to Cubone, grinning his mischievous grin. "And it might just be a good one."

"Kew."

Not hearing a vote of confidence in that response, Tucker frowned. "Hey, I've gotten us this far, haven't I? Have a little faith in me!"

"Kew, kew," the Pokémon mocked.

Tucker rolled his eyes. "Yeah, real funny," he groaned, kneeling down with his Pokémon and bringing his voice lower. "Just trust me, I know this will work. Besides, you'll only have to do one thing."

* * *

When Delia got home, it was already well past noon, yet she found her mother still bundled in her bathrobe and leaning against the kitchen counter nursing a cup of coffee. She looked rested, relaxed, so much so that Delia wasn't sure she was even staring at her mother at first.

The older woman spotted her daughter in the doorway and gave an almost embarrassed little chuckle. "I haven't slept like that in ages."

Delia smiled. "You needed it."

"I did, didn't I?" her mother laughed, tilting her head to the space next to her. Delia took the invitation and joined her mother, who gave a long, reminiscing sigh. "Some nights I would come home so worn out I could feel my body behind me at the end of a rope. But I bore through it for you, for your father, for the roof over our heads."

Delia leaned back against the counter beside her, nodding. After a quiet moment, she uttered, "I saw that you took down the room for rent sign outside."

Her mother set free another sigh, but it was a good one, a relieved one. "For now, yes. I think we can afford to."

Hearing that brought Delia some comfort and reassurance, but she still couldn't summon the words, the ones she'd rehearsed all day but just couldn't wrestle off her tongue now that the moment had come.

Her mother must have noticed something was off. "Delia? What is it?"

"Hmm?" Delia dragged her focus back to the present.

"You look lost in thought." Her mother set down her mug behind her, concern in her eyes as she placed her hand over her daughter's. "What is it, baby?"

Delia found her mother's gaze, swallowing her fear. "Sam's leaving town for a while, as you know."

The older woman nodded, not saying anything, just listening.

Delia drew in a breath before continuing. "Well, I just thought—"

"You thought you'd go with him," her mother finished for her, the tiny smile on her lips stunning Delia.

"Doesn't... that upset you?" The question half-stuck in her throat; she had to clear it out.

Her mother didn't say anything at first and hopped up to perch on the counter, patting the spot next to her. Delia reluctantly pushed herself up and sat, surprised at seeing this side to her mother, so calm, so easygoing, ready to listen without judgment. There was an air of confidence around her, one that had always been there but never really got the breathe, as if she never struggled to be in control and never battled with her feelings. Delia envied her that.

After some silence, her mother spoke at last. "I've spent a lot of time alone with my thoughts these past several days, looking back on some choices and wishing I'd made different ones." She let that sink in before taking Delia's arm and whispering, "I don't want you to have those same regrets."

Delia kept silent but managed a grateful little smile. She really hadn't expected the news to be taken with such encouragement, let alone well at all.

"I know we've never been that close," her mother continued after a beat, the admission upsetting Delia a bit, "not like you and your father. And I know I can come down hard on you sometimes."

"Mother—"

"But it's only because I love you," the older woman spoke over her, refusing to be interrupted. "The reason I didn't want you to be with Gio was because I didn't want you throwing away your future on him."

Delia nodded, again clinging to silence. The confession really did put things into perspective, and deep down, Delia had always suspected her mother's intentions to be more about her welfare and less about distrusting Gio. And to hear it out loud was something special.

Then, unexpectedly, her mother uttered to her lap, "What a hypocrite I was."

Delia flinched. "What? No! Mother, you only meant to protect me!"

"It's not just that, Delia." Her mother seemed to lack words and was taking deep breaths, maybe to try and find them. "These last two years I've done nothing but hold you back from your dreams, making you work and cook and clean like some housemaid."

Delia shook her head. "We both had to pull our weight, mother. It's not your fault. To be honest, I didn't even know what I wanted out of life." Hearing herself, she took a thoughtful pause. "I'm still not even sure what I'm looking for, exactly."

Her mother smiled, although it looked a twinge sad. "Won't it be interesting to find out then?"

"Yes," said Delia, smiling back.

"Well, then you'd better start packing." She leaned in to kiss Delia's forehead before hopping off the counter and turning to the sink to rinse her mug. Delia stayed as she was, fighting with herself on whether to tell her mother about the locket her father had left behind. Maybe her mother knew what secrets it held. Maybe she knew how to open it.

She just as quickly shooed away the thought though; she finally had her mother's blessing to leave home and knew it was best not to throw a monkey wrench in that. Besides, her father had sworn her to secrecy when he'd given her that locket; she had to respect his final wish and leave well enough alone for now. Plus, her concern for the locket only came second to wanting to make certain her mother would be well off without her. She didn't like the thought of her being all alone in the house with no one to look after her.

Hopping down from the counter, Delia decided rather than offered, "I'm leaving Cuddles and Gloom behind to watch over you while I'm away."

The older woman scoffed at the idea. "That's nonsense, Delia. I don't need to be watched over. You're the one who needs—"

"Please," Delia begged softly. "For my own peace of mind, if nothing else. I just want to know that you're safe and taken care of."

Her mother gave a chaffed huff, arms crossed and foot tapping as she considered the request. One brow slowly went up. "You'll have Marlee and Luxio protecting you at least, won't you?"

Delia nodded, adding, "Not to mention Sam and his Pokémon."

Finally, the older woman gave in with a shrug. "Fine," she said. "Just be extra careful out there. If I find out you've been abducted by another maniac, I'm bringing you home and locking you in your room forever."

"Deal," laughed Delia.

"Now would you mind picking some vegetables from the garden?" her mother asked, stepping past Delia to open the cupboard and fetch her cookbook. "I want to make us a nice, big supper tonight. So much to celebrate!"

"Of course, mother," Delia said, leaving the kitchen with a smile on her face and no more doubts swimming in her mind. For now, anyway.

* * *

Marco kept his head low and the scarred side of his face toward the ocean as he prowled the boatyard. He didn't recognize any of the vessels docked; most of his old seafaring contacts from his early smuggling days must have moved on and gone off the grid now that the Military Government was cracking down on illegal trade. Things had never been this strict when Torino was still turning tricks and causing confusion, but at least Marco could take comfort in the fact that the town was at least slightly safer than it had been years ago. He could cross off a bullet to the head as a potential execution for him; the pop of a firearm would draw cops like Pinsir to honey.

Not that he could really count on the Military Government or the police to protect him. Not here. He wasn't exactly an upstanding citizen. He was still a mobster, for one, and wanted by both the law and the outlaws of this town alike. When he'd agreed to return to Vermilion City to follow Giovanni, he'd also agreed to return to an angry hive of pirates and sailors he'd pissed off a few years back. So if he did come across any familiar faces, they weren't likely to be the friendly kind. And any of them could croak him without making a sound.

Then he stumbled upon Old Man Keefer passed out on a bench just outside The Laughing Cloyster, the latter's favorite watering hole, and wondered if maybe luck was on his side after all. A sailor of seventy, Keefer was probably the only friend Marco had left in Vermilion City. Back when Marco still worked these parts for Giuseppe, Keefer would often loan out his boat to the kid smuggler in exchange for drinking money.

Marco gently nudged his friend awake with his boot. The old sailor rolled onto his back, cracking one crusty eye open and blinking up at the boy. "Well, aren't you a sight for old eyes," he rasped, smiling.

"Don't say that," Marco chuckled, helping his pal to his feet. "You don't look a day over thirty, Keefer."

Keefer stood on drunken feet and squinted at Marco in an attempt to focus, his greasy white hair constantly falling over his forehead with every twitch of his neck. "Ya sure shot up a few inches. Both of ya!"

Marco looked over his shoulder, seeing no one else there. Apparently the old man was so sloshed that he was seeing double.

"Kept the scar, did ya?" Keefer pointed out, the difference between a scar and a tattoo apparently lost on him in his fuzzy state. "Looks good on ya!"

Marco just rolled with the punches. "Gee, thanks. I was actually on my way to get it removed until you complimented it just now."

The old sailor suddenly got all serious and leaned in toward Marco—stumbled, actually. "You should probably amscray, kid," he whispered grimly, whiskey on his breath. "I would tell ya to keep a low profile, but yer kinda easy to pick out from a crowd. No offense."

"Non taken," Marco said, steadying Keefer so that he didn't collapse on him.

Finding his bearings, the old man babbled on, "Half the thugs in this district alone wanna feed ya to the Carvanahs for what you did. The other half would sooner hand ya over to Team Rocket for a quick buck."

"And Giuseppe wonders why I'm not a people person," Marco muttered under his breath before coming to focus. "I'll be on my way just as soon as I can get my hands on a boat."

"A boat, ya say?" Keefer slurred.

Marco nodded. "Preferably a fast one."

The old man smirked. "Dippin' yer toes back in the waters of some real smugglin', eh? Risky business, kid!"

"No, I'll gladly keep those days behind me, thanks." Looking left, then right, Marco lowered his voice. "I'm actually tracking someone."

"Someone in Team Rocket," the old man guessed half-correctly. Apparently he knew something Marco didn't.

The younger man narrowed his eyes intently. "What can you tell me?"

Keefer gave a shrug. "Only know what I heard."

"And what did you hear?" Marco pressed loudly, trying to keep the sailor's eyes from drifting.

"That some undercover Team Rocket goons stowed away on a freighter," the sailor answered. "Had a logo on it. 'Happy Karps' or 'Lucky Karps' or somethin' like that."

Marco took a moment to log that away. "How long ago did they leave?"

"Dunno," the other mumbled at the tail end of a burp. "Hour ago, maybe two. Dunno where they were headed. One of 'em had a Meowth though."

Bingo.

"I need to get a trail on them, Keefer," Marco explained, not wasting the other's time with details he would just forget in ten seconds anyway. "Can you hook me up? For old times' sake?"

"Would if I could, but I lost my boat in a bet some weeks back," said the sailor, clumsily pointing his thumb toward the tavern behind him after almost poking his eye out on the first try.

"Sorry to hear it," Marco huffed, pursing his lips tight. Things just got a lot harder. He would have to improvise.

"There is _someone_ who might be able to help ya out though," Keefer shared. "Calls herself the 'Terror of the Tides'. Most ruthless pirate you'll ever meet. Damn good card player too."

The description rang familiar, and Marco lifted a brow. "Pink hair? Russian accent? Fear junkie?"

"Ya know her?"

Marco took a deep breath and nodded. "We've met."

The pirate in question went by the name Drucilla, captain of the feared _Frost Blight_ and a criminal notorious across Kanto's waters and beyond. If Marco was a betting man, she was the reason half the city's thugs had a bone to pick with him. That she wanted him dead didn't come as a shock; he'd snuck on board her vessel once posing as a deckhand and looted her supply stash, smuggling the goods back to Giuseppe after a narrow escape. It had been his first real assignment in the Saffron Mafia, and after he'd proven himself, the rest was ancient history.

But apparently Drucilla hadn't forgotten or forgiven.

Since her penchant for brutality had become even more legendary in the two years since that betrayal, he was walking on razor thin ice just by showing his face here. Stories of her barbarities always found their way inland these days, sending collective chills through the spines of city folk. Marco had even heard she was the only pirate brave enough to attack and rob inbound supply ships from the Military Government. If that wasn't ballsy enough to earn the respect of every sailor in Kanto, he didn't know what was.

Despite being tanked to the brim, Keefer must have seen the worry flash over the teenager's face. "Oh! So _she's_ the one gunning for yer head, eh?"

The younger man frowned. "If not Team Rocket, then _definitely_ her, yeah."

Keefer bobbed his head in a struggle to nod. "She's, uh, anchored for the day, but she'll be splitsville soon as the cops catch wind that she's here."

Marco steeled himself enough to ask, "Where can I find her?"

The drunken sailor raised his gaunt, grimy finger to the tavern again, not saying a word.

"Great," Marco huffed, having feared as much. The impulse to run like hell in the other direction was strong, but he knew he couldn't go back to Giuseppe empty-handed and let that religious wackjob execute Sorhagen. He'd promised to tail Giovanni. And if he had to risk his neck to find a ship to stow away on, then fine.

"It's the damnedest thing," said Keefer. "She turns up at this joint every few moons for a game of Sevipers, empties everyone's pockets, and then disappears to her island hold way up north."

This caught Marco's attention. "Empties everyone's pockets of what?"

"Mhmm... money. Supplies. Pokémon. Whatever loot she can carry off to sea." There was a lot of guesswork in his voice. "Couldn't tell ya for certain, but word around the docks is she's buildin' an army."

Marco hummed over the intel, not finding it too far fetched. If Drucilla was going to wage war on anyone, it would be Madame Boss. Even Marco had heard about the pirate queen's open contempt for Team Rocket. He mostly chalked it up to those rumors about her being a former general for Torino who hadn't quite gotten with the program. Not that they were rumors anymore. Everyone pretty much accepted it as public knowledge, and as far as he knew, she hadn't come out and denied any of it.

As he slowly turned toward the bar housing his enemy, Keefer warned to his back, "Keep one hand on yer Pokéball, kid. Ain't too friendly in there. And stick close to the shadows."

He threw a smile back at his old friend. "It's what I do best," he said, then forced his feet into motion. He considered the possibility that Drucilla was already expecting him, and if that were true, he may as well have been walking into the jaws of death. For Giuseppe, he was willing to take that risk.

"You ain't getting in, kid!" shouted a burly voice. "Now scram!"

Marco halted abruptly as he came around to the front of the bar, thinking the shouting to be directed at him. Then he spotted another kid, maybe three or four years younger than him, putzing around in front of the entrance and getting on the bouncer's last nerve. The boy was definitely from out of town; he had dirty blonde hair, wore a preppy school uniform, and carried a small suitcase. What the heck was he doing hanging around these parts, Marco wondered?

"I said beat it!" the bouncer repeated, taking a threatening step forward. The Poliwrath beside him mirrored the movement, but the kid, either too brave or too brainless, didn't scare easily. Marco wondered if he had something up his sleeve.

"My Cubone and I really need to get on a ship as soon as possible," the kid whined, holding up his Pokémon. "C'mon, isn't there someone inside who can help us out?"

The bouncer's face turned beet red. "Get lost or my Poliwrath here will give you a taste of his Hydro Pump!"

Seemingly giving up, the blonde boy exhaled and threw his gaze to the ground hopelessly. "Oh well. Might as well throw in the towel and go home, right, Cubone?"

Marco snorted a laugh. The kid was a damn good actor, if nothing else.

Then came what Marco guessed was the punchline to their con: the Cubone squirmed free from the kid's arm, a little too easily for Marco not to see through, then slipped between the man's legs and disappeared through the open doors behind him.

The bouncer spun in a full circle, taken aback. "Hey, get your Pokémon under control!"

"I'm sorry, he doesn't know any better!" the kid huffed, quickly sidestepping around the bouncer in the latter's confusion.

"Hey, what the—"

"Don't worry," the kid hollered back to him once inside. "I'll get him!"

"Yeah, you get him and then get _out_!" the bouncer shouted after him, rattling his fist in the air.

Marco smirked, impressed. He then stepped forward to follow after the kid. The bouncer saw him coming and quickly planted himself in front of the entrance again.

"Keep walking, pal! I already let one kid too many inside!"

"I came to see Drucilla," Marco stated, pushing loose hair strands out of his face so that his scar showed clearly. "Heard she's anchored here for the day. I got important business with her."

It took a few seconds for the familiarity to sink in, but the bouncer's face eventually lit up with a wicked smile, and he stepped aside for Marco. "It'll be your funeral," he cackled.

Not exactly comforting. Even so, Marco swallowed hard and straightened his posture, then pushed past the bat-wing doors. The inside wasn't what he'd expected. It wasn't a very big establishment, but it looked well cared for, the walls painted a fresh, cozy green that brought out the glossy brown of the hardwood floors and heavy ceiling beams. Usually, the smaller the port the slummier the saloon, but The Laughing Cloyster seemed to be the jolly exception, even if its clientele wasn't so easy on the eyes.

It made sense. A pirate of Drucilla's caliber probably wouldn't have settled for anything less than average. Plus, the more legitimate-looking the bar, the less likely it was to draw attention from the police or the Military Government. Back when Torino still had the Pokémon League and the Diet regularly tied up, a place like this could have been falling apart at the seams from countless shootouts and unsanctioned Pokémon battles, and no one besides maybe Officer Jenny would have batted an eye.

After a few cautious steps, Marco could already hear the unwanted attention picking up in some nearby conversations; but they weren't focused at him, he realized. Going off murmurings alone, he honed in on the blonde boy pretty easily since he stood out like a Metapod in a Kakuna nest.

The kid picked his Cubone up off the floor, snickering audibly, "Nice work back there, little guy!"

Marco frowned. Maybe the little squirt was in over his head after all.

"Don't worry, Cubone," the boy said, taking a look around at the patrons drinking their fill. "I know how to talk to these sailor types. I saw it in a pirate movie once."

Not liking the sound of that, Marco rounded on the kid from behind, hoping to pull him out of sight before he could make an idiot of himself. He made to grab the back of his shirt, but the kid moved out of his reach, clueless to Marco's presence, let alone existence.

"Just watch," the kid snickered to his Cubone, setting the Pokémon down before pushing himself up on one of the high tables.

Marco facepalmed. "Oh no. Please don't."

Too late.

"Arg!" the kid growled from deep in his throat, standing up on the table with his chest puffed out and his fist held high. "Listen up, me hearties!"

Pairs of eyes from every table and bar stool zeroed in on the kid, almost all of them belonging to large and none-too-friendly-looking sailors, some armed to the teeth with Pokéballs and others looking like they didn't need more than their fists. The woman behind the counter also startled, her brows quirking at the sight of a child playing court jester in her establishment.

The kid stupidly kept running his mouth, no shame or sense to hold him back. "We be lookin' for a sturdy vessel with a good cap'n to sail us to the land of Sinnoh! Which of ye scallywags be up to the task?"

Dead silence.

Then, from one of the nearby tables, "Whose kid is this?"

"Bet someone put him up to it," another voice chimed in.

"I say we take his Pokémon!" suggested someone else, and a chorus of chair legs scraped against the floor in agreement. Suddenly several patrons were on their feet, casting shadows over the kid. The gullible little blonde hopped down from his perch, the cocky smile gone from his face as he slowly backed up.

"Get behind me, Cubone," he whispered to the masked Pokémon clutching his leg.

Giuseppe's taught morals getting the better of him, Marco dragged out a breath and quickly stepped out from his place in the shadows, planting himself between the kid and his would-be-attackers. The sailors stopped cold in their tracks, glaring hard at him. Thinking up a plan on the spot, Marco spun, wagging a finger at the blonde. "There you are!" he scolded. "Stop fooling around! Didn't ma and pa tell you this was no place to be horsing around?"

The blonde just stared at him, jaw slack. "Who are—"

Not letting him blow his act, Marco shoved a hand over the blonde's mouth to muffle him and quickly turned to face their confused audience. "Sorry, folks! Kid brothers, am I right? Aren't they just the worst?"

"Oi!" shouted the lady manning the counter. "Break it up or take it outside!"

Marco held up his palms reassuringly to both the barkeeper and the hostiles. "Don't worry, I'll set him straight. Back to your drinks, nothing to see here!"

The sailors all looked at each other, stumped, then must have decided fighting two kids over a Cubone wasn't worth the hassle or the attention, because they all lost interest and immediately stumbled back to their tables.

Except for one. A big, muscly fellow with sharp small eyes and tattoo-covered arms. He leaned in to get a closer look at Marco's face. "Wait a minute," he said after a long while, slower than he looked. "Aren't you that smuggler kid from a while back? The two-timing rat who—"

"A thousand Pokédollars says you never saw us here," Marco offered quietly, bringing up his foot and pulling a crisp stack of bills from the inside of his boot in one discreet, fluid motion.

The man looked at the money and snorted. "I'd rather cash in on the bounty on your head! The Terror of the Tides is offering one-hundred-thousand Pokédollars to anyone that brings it to her!"

Marco frowned, a little offended. "Really? Am I that cheap?"

"You're that _dead_ ," the sailor growled, inching closer. "Now how do you wanna go? Knife? Nah, too messy. Think I'll just crush you into powder instead."

"Sure, you could do that," Marco indulged him, backing away slowly, "but what happens when Don Giuseppe offers double that for the schmuck who killed his first lieutenant? I mean, is it really worth it? Is spending the rest of your days looking over your shoulder really worth a small fortune you'll just end up pissing and drinking and gambling away anyway?"

The man said nothing, his dopey features scrunching in intense thought. Marco dangled the money clip in front of him to try and speed up the decision.

"Trust me, guy," he advised, as if to a good friend. "This way is easier."

"Make it two-thousand Pokédollars," growled the man, getting in Marco's face and pointing to his scar, "because I don't like your ugly mug."

"Hey, we have that in common," Marco quipped, fishing out some more bills from his boot and adding it to the stack. The man grudgingly snatched the cash from his hand, counted it, shoved it in his pocket, then stormed off with a loud belch.

Once he was out of sight, Marco let go of the panicked breath trapped in his lungs. Damn him for getting involved and putting himself in the spotlight. He'd tried to ignore the curl of honor and righteousness in his gut, but it had won out in the end. Just like when he'd spared those two Rocket grunts after stealing their truck. Just like when he'd stuck up for Sorhagen. Doing the right thing would cost him like always; if Drucilla hadn't seen him coming before, she probably did now.

At last, he turned to face the little blonde-headed idiot that had almost gotten them both turned into mincemeat. The kid was crouched down and comforting his Cubone, and suddenly the impulse to dole out insults just wasn't there anymore. There was something about this boy that tugged at the corners of Marco's memory, but he shrugged it off. Seen one plucky little kid, seen 'em all, he figured.

"You got more guts than me just waltzing in here, I'll give you that," Marco said by way of greeting.

The kid came to his feet and seemed to collect himself, righting his small shoulders. "Thanks, but I could have handled them."

"Oh," Marco sing-songed under his breath, before turning away. "Gutsy _and_ stupid. Got it."

That got the blonde fired up. "Hey, who are you calling stupid?"

"How should I know when you haven't told me your name?"

"Tucker," the boy at his heels unwisely blurted out. "What's yours?"

Marco laughed, hollow and bitter. "Why would I give my name to a total stranger?"

"Because I just did," the other boy retorted.

"You mean because you're stupid," Marco corrected, weaving between tables and bar stools to try and shake the kid.

No such luck. "That's getting old," he sassed. "But fine. What should I call you then? Scar guy?"

Marco rolled his eyes. "Real imaginative."

"Too mean?" the boy asked, humming thoughtfully. "Fine. How about Mr. Shaggy Blue Hair?"

Marco winced. "Legendaries, please, no."

There was a shrug in the blonde's voice then. "Fine, Scar Guy it is. That's what you get for calling me stupid."

Fed up, Marco stopped and spun around sharply. "I didn't call you that just to call you that, okay? I meant that you don't belong on this side of town. Go home, where it's safe."

The blonde shook his head stubbornly, squeezing his Cubone tight. "We can't go home! I need to get to the Sinnoh Region so that I can officially start my Pokémon journey!"

Marco tried to wrap his brain around that one but couldn't. "Sinnoh? Why would you want to start it all the way out there?"

The other boy pouted. "Because that's where my friend is."

"Then get new friends," Marco advised, dashing the kid's hopes with a sharp pivot of his heel. He started to walk away again, hoping that was the end of that, but the kid was persistent and stayed in step behind him. Wonderful. This was apparently his reward for doing a good deed—a privileged little loudmouth and a Cubone to babysit.

"Come on, Scar Guy! I can pay!"

Marco groaned. "Do I look like I have a boat to sail you around in?"

"No, but I bet you know people who do," the blonde guessed.

Marco shrugged. "Good bet," he acknowledged.

"So then help us out!"

This time when Marco stopped and spun around, it was more of a self-preserving reaction, his hand clamping over the other's mouth. This kid clearly didn't have a volume button, and Marco could just feel the swirl of leering bodies move around them, listening, knots in the current.

"I _did_ just help you out," Marco answered the blonde after a while, voice low. "I told you to amscray. But now I'm all out of favors. And all out of time."

As if deaf, the kid dropped his suitcase to the floor and knelt down to reach into one of its outside pockets. When he came back up, he was holding a pile of loose change in his palm. "Here, look! I can front you a little bit now and pay the rest later!"

A laugh hiccuped from Marco's throat as he looked over the meager offering. "Seriously? I could reach into the gutter outside and pull out triple this."

The blonde stuffed the dirty change back in its pouch and pulled out something else. "How about a coupon for a free tire rotation?"

Sighing, Marco snatched up the slip of paper. " _Expired_ coupon," he corrected, tapping on the passed date in small print. "You're an awful haggler, you know that?"

Out of tricks, the blonde's face drooped, eyes downcast.

"Look, I'm sorry, I can't help you," Marco heaved, taking pity on him despite his efforts. "And after your little performance just now, I'm betting none of these other scurvy sea rats will either." He held up the coupon again and waved it. "Besides, why would I go to some body shop for…" He trailed off when something on the advertisement stuck out to him. It was the name of the shop: 'Sakaki's Parts and Repair'.

Sakaki.

For safe measure, he turned over the coupon and honed in on the shop's address next; sure enough, it was the same as the Viridian City Gym. Was it luck or coincidence that this twelve-year-old kid was carrying around a coupon for the business of the man he'd been tasked with stalking?

He looked up from the slip of paper, clearing the discovery from his voice. "Say, uh, how did you get this? No way you're old enough to drive."

The kid shrugged. "It's my friend's shop. He used to have me hand these coupons out to help his business get off the ground."

Marco lifted a brow. "This wouldn't be the same friend who's waiting for you in Sinnoh, would it?"

"Yeah, but it's sure gonna be a long wait now," he mewled, arms hanging down loosely at his sides, shoulders hunched in defeat. "Well, thanks anyway, Scar Guy," he mumbled, picking up his suitcase and turning to leave.

"Wait!" Marco's hand lurched forward almost of its own will, grabbing the kid by his arm and spinning him back around. "Tucker, right?"

The blonde gave him a funny look. "Yeah?"

Remembering to play it cool, Marco dialed back his energy and slipped back into his apathetic skin. "Okay, listen, Tucker," he exhaled, as if he were wrestling with a hard dilemma. "I have some contacts around here."

The kid's brow slowly crept upward. "Uh-huh?"

"And it just so happens I'm looking to hire a ship myself," he said casually, as if the idea had just clicked. " _Maybe_ I can do you a solid."

Inclining his head, the look Tucker offered him was searching, if not openly suspicious, but Marco's expression remained carefully blank. "No way. That was too easy."

Marco felt his gut churn at those two sentences. Maybe the kid wasn't _that_ stupid after all.

"There's still a fee I gotta pay, isn't there?" the kid wondered, face anxious again.

And just like that, Marco had him hook, line, and sinker again.

"Well, I don't work charity cases," Marco replied, rubbing his chin, pretending to have seconds thoughts. "Especially when I'm risking my own neck."

Tucker took his bottom lip between his teeth. "Look, whatever your fee is, I can't pay it right now. Like you said, I'm broke. But I'm good for it, I swear! Once I get where I need to go, I'll have the money wired over or something! Just help us out first! Please!"

Marco hummed an indecisive note, trying to sell the performance. "This is really important to you, huh?"

"More than anything!" the kid exclaimed in a rush of breath.

Marco glanced around the spread, making sure no one was snooping, then picked things up again. "Do you even know _where_ in the Sinnoh Region your friend is staying? A town? A city?"

Tucker shook his head. "No idea."

"Do you know where he made port?"

"No idea."

Marco rolled his eyes, a genuine reaction this time and not an act. "How am I supposed to help you out if you don't even know where it is you're going? Do you have any idea how big the Sinnoh Region is?"

"About eighty-three thousand square kilometers," the kid supplied effortlessly, as if in school.

"It was a rhetorical question," Marco clarified, crossing his arms. "And your answer didn't help your case. At all."

This time it was Tucker who gave an impatient huff. "Look, once we reach Sinnoh, I'll find him easily!"

Marco wasn't willing to take that on faith. "How? Tell me."

"I can't explain it," the other said with a shrug. "I'll just... be able to feel if he's nearby or not."

Marco slanted his head, needing more to go on. "What does that even mean?"

"It means I have a kind of... second sight," Tucker whispered, as if letting him in on the biggest secret in the world.

Marco's grin came without effort. "You're just full of surprises," he laughed, unable to hold it back.

"I know it sounds crazy!" admitted the blonde. "I still don't even get it how it works, but just trust me on this!"

Marco nodded and blew out a winded breath, making it seem as though Tucker had worn him down. He didn't believe any of that special power baloney, but the kid did have a certain... fire. There was just something about him, Marco didn't know what, but there was something. Something in his eyes, his attitude.

He shook off the thought, remembering to focus on the facts. Delusions of grandeur aside, the blonde was his best shot at catching up to Giovanni and getting back to his assignment. At least he could tick off that mental checkbox. That just left Drucilla to deal with; if he could make amends with her somehow, their search for a ship would be over.

"Stick close to me," he instructed Tucker, setting the pace as he zeroed in on the doors to the tavern's backroom. "And don't say anything to anyone. You're invisible, alright?"

Tucker nodded. "Invisible. Got it." He looked down at his Pokémon. "Got it, buddy?"

"Kew! Kewbone!"

Tucker chuckled, holding up his little partner in introduction. "By the way, this is Cubone."

"Never would have guessed," Marco muttered under his breath.

 **To Be Continued . . .**

* * *

 **A/N:** Drucilla sounds similar to another name, doesn't it? I left some clues ;)

 **Next Chapter:** En route to Sinnoh, Gio questions Archer's motives; Tucker and Marco confront Drucilla; the Coalition prepares for Team Rocket's arrival.


	11. Terror of the Tides

.

.

 **Short Change Hero**

 **Chapter 11: Terror of the Tides**

Tucker inhaled deep, mentally bracing his shoulders as he followed Scar Guy into the establishment's backroom. The floorboards creaked and shifted beneath his weight, and the sound of water gently lapping against rickety beams underfoot made Cubone squirm in his arms. If he had to guess, the tavern didn't end where the harbor met the sea. He had to figure it was designed that way on purpose; probably a quick, easy escape route for pirates and sailors on the lam.

The air became stuffy and hot, almost hard to breathe. Tucker felt himself pressed in by several larger, taller bodies, each giving off a foul, rank odor. He stayed at Scar Guy's heels until they could walk no further. Through the air thick with smoke-haze, Tucker heard gruff murmurings all around. He had to stand on his toes and squint over a mountainous set of shoulders blocking his view, but he could vaguely make out several silhouettes sitting around a table in the room's center.

From the far, obscured end of the table, a woman spoke. "Do you feel it, old man? The fear gnawing away at your soul?"

Tucker swatted away the cigarette fumes and squinted harder. The long, stretch table was manned by three sailors on either side, each holding a deck of cards and quivering in their chairs. He never would have imagined such tough, fierce-looking giants could look so frightened. And he had a bad feeling in his gut this wasn't some run-of-the-mill card game.

He turned his eyes to the head of the table once the haze there lifted and finally put a face to the dark, lilting voice that had spoken. She sat heads taller than the men in her company, amazingly. Her features were white and set and smooth, like stone glazed in frost. Her expression was just as hard, cold, so much so that not even the thick mane of pink hair spilling warmly around it could melt ice that cold. She dressed as lethally as she looked; pitch dark vest, stark white undershirt, leather cuffs and pants, sleek black boots kicked up in front of her. Several Pokéballs hung threateningly in plain view along her cloth belt.

He couldn't decide if she was pretty or terrifying.

Tugging on Scar Guy's sleeve, Tucker asked in a hushed voice, "Is that her? Your contact or whatever?"

The older boy nodded, his lips twitching nervously before answering. "Yeah. That's her. That's Drucilla."

"Drucilla," Tucker tested the name on his tongue. He swore he'd heard it somewhere before. Or something _like_ it, at least.

"Before she earned the title Terror of the Tides, she was calling herself the Queen of Fear," Scar Guy leaned in close to whisper. "And the years haven't been kinder to her since then. From Goldenrod to Gateon, when men see her sails, they pray for mercy."

"Great!" Tucker exclaimed. "Let's go talk to her."

The older boy held out his arm to stop him. "Hold your Ponytas, will you? We'll talk to her. Just not here and definitely not now."

"Why not?" whined Tucker.

"Because I told you to stick close to me, remember?" He closed his eyes for a moment, as if asking for patience. "You don't want to approach her now. Trust me."

Before Tucker could ask why, the floorboards gave a painful whine that made all but Drucilla flinch. The smile twisting her mouth like a pinwheel deepened as her long and slender, gloved fingers held up a card up from her deck. She set it down in front of her, and as the sailor sitting nearest her slowly drew a card from his own deck, she made a discouraging clicking sound with her tongue.

"Careful," she warned, eyeing the center of the table where a small mountain of Pokédollars and silver coins mixed with other valuables sat piled.

"Huh?" he croaked in a voice brittle with fear.

She shrugged. "It would be a shame for you to make a costly move, is all."

The floorboards groaned, louder this time. The sailor holding his card swallowed, face pale and sweaty. Tucker looked around and noticed how everyone else, both at and around the table, seemed to be holding their breath as well. Even the ogre of a fellow blocking his view shrunk into his shoulders and nearly trampled Tucker upon backing up a few frightened steps.

Finally, the man next to Drucilla set down his card; it had a Zangoose illustrated on its face. Smirk unwavering, Drucilla flipped her own card face-up, revealing a Seviper.

Gasps everywhere.

The sailor squealed out a high-pitched note, realizing his mistake, whatever it was. The instant he tried getting up, a large tail with diamond blue scales tore through the floorboards and snagged the leg of his chair. Before Tucker could blink, the sailor dropped out of vie.

The sudden quiet that followed was only punctuated by a splash somewhere below. Cubone gave an uneasy whimper, pulling Tucker out of his trance. As if nothing had happened, Drucilla set to reshuffling her deck. The question of what Pokémon was lurking below burned on Tucker's tongue, but part of him didn't care to stick around and find out. He wondered if he was better off taking his chances with Officer Jenny back at the harbor.

"And then there were six," Scar Guy whispered, a joke too dark for Tucker to giggle at. The young Oak swallowed and watched as the remaining card players finally snapped back to the present and anxiously followed Drucilla's example.

"What the heck are they even playing?" he asked Scar Guy.

"Cards."

"What, like, Go Fish or something?"

The older boy's features moved into a pinched look. "You don't get out much, do you?"

"Story of my life," Tucker exhaled.

"The game's called Seviper's Delight," Scar Guy explained quietly, all the while Drucilla and her opponents took turns setting down cards face-down. "Every card hides either a Seviper or a Zangoose. Each player is stacked with a full deck of seven cards."

Tucker wrinkled his nose. "So, kinda like a full party of Pokémon?"

"Right," the other replied. "But there's a catch. You can only claim one of two options when playing a card: attack or defend. And the idea is to flush your opponent's entire deck, even if it means putting your own cards at risk. So, if you play an attacking Seviper card against an attacking Zangoose card, then both cards get taken out. And if you play an attacking card against a defending card, then the attacking card is eliminated from the deck."

Tucker bit his lip thoughtfully. "Why not just always play the defending card then?"

"You can only defend against one player per turn," the other whispered back. "And there's no rule forbidding two different players from attacking the same defending target."

"That's kinda unfair."

"Never said the game was perfect," Scar Guy said with a shrug. "Besides, Drucilla always beats the odds."

As he was absorbing all this, Tucker watched as cards were repeatedly slapped down and turned over, Drucilla effortlessly flushing all opposing cards one by one with her winning picks. Her opponents didn't even seem concerned with taking each other out anymore. It was now an effort just to survive her, and unfortunately for them, she seemed to have an answer for every card played against her. She countered a Seviper with a Zangoose, a defending card with an attacking one, and so on.

"And what happens if two of the same cards are played against each other?" Tucker asked once the rules of the game started to click.

"If a Seviper is played against a Seviper, regardless if either is attacking or defending, then both cards are returned to their respective decks," Scar Guy explained. "The same goes for twin Zangoose cards."

Tucker furrowed a brow at him. "Then… why not just call it 'Seviper _and_ Zangoose's Delight'?"

Scar Guy chuckled. "Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue. Besides, there's this old superstition that Seviper cards are lucky."

Tucker hummed, finding some truth to that as each deck of cards barring Drucilla's rapidly shrunk. "This seems kinda strange. Why don't they just settle this with a Pokémon Battle?"

"Draws too much attention," Scar Guy supplied. "If the cops found out what the stakes were, everyone here would end up in handcuffs. Or worse."

"Worse?"

A grim nod. "After the Rocket Empire mishap, the Military Government authorized police to use extreme force against any and all criminals."

Tucker chewed on that for a moment. "You mentioned stakes. What stakes?"

Scar Guy pointed to the pile of loot at the center of the table. "Every player bets either their money or their Pokémon. The last man still holding cards takes all the winnings."

"That's crazy!" Tucker exclaimed, instinctively pressing Cubone tighter against him. "Why would anyone wanna bet their Pokémon?"

"For something better."

Tucker looked down at his tiny, masked partner. "I wouldn't trade Cubone for anything."

The blue-haired boy exhaled sharply and pushed his hands to his temples. "That's why you don't belong here."

The whining of wood underfoot silenced the room again and Tucker glanced up. Drucilla laid down a hand of cards and scraped several silver pieces off the table. The sailor across from her squirmed, then reached forward with a shaking hand to put forth his own card. His _last_ card.

"You sure you want to do that?" Her smile was knowing, mean, delivered with a head tilt.

Another player whose deck had been whittled down to one suddenly shot up, lurching forward to steal back a Pokéball he had bet. Upon turning to flee, he too was pulled under by the mysterious Pokémon, leaving nothing behind but a gaping hole in the floor. His prized Pokéball, meanwhile, gently rolled back into the pile.

Scar Guy put a hand on Tucker's suddenly tense shoulder. "You only think you're willing to part with your possessions until it's time to part with them. And Drucilla doesn't suffer sore losers."

Tucker swallowed. "Why would anyone risk playing against her if she's so good?"

"Like I said, stakes." The older boy again pointed, this time to a different Pokéball in the treasure pile. It had a sleek blue and white coat. If that was what Drucilla had bet, it must have been something really special for men to risk their lives over.

Tucker squinted. "What's in there?"

"The Legendary Articuno, or so she claims," Scar Guy whispered. "My theory? She's just bluffing to bait more saps into playing."

"Why?"

"Because the more players she beats, the more winnings she nets."

Tucker cocked his head. "But if she loses, then the jig is up, right? Why risk it?"

"It's not a risk if she knows she'll win."

Before Tucker could ask what that meant, his eyes were drawn to the shadows behind Drucilla. He could vaguely make out a shapely, humanoid figure swaying back and forth behind her. He swore he recognized it from his dad's sketches and dug around his memory for a name.

"Is that a Jynx?" he asked when it came to him.

Scar Guy nodded. "Keep your distance."

"Duh," Tucker groaned. "It's just that I've never seen one in person before. They're not exactly common where I come from."

"That Jynx is Drucilla's ace up the sleeve," Scar Guy revealed. "You see how its eyes glow before every turn?"

Tucker took notice and nodded. "It's psychic," he realized.

"It reads the other players' cards and then passes on what it learns to Drucilla telepathically," the other explained. "Why do you think she's never lost a game?"

Hearing that, a fire lit up inside Tucker. "Wait, what? That's a dirty trick!"

Scar Guy yanked the boy back by his collar. "Keep it down," he growled.

Tucker pushed the other's hand away. "No way! Using your Pokémon to count cards and cheat is just as bad as gambling with them! No way we're asking someone like that for help!"

The outburst leveled the table and everyone spectating silent. Suddenly Drucilla was beaming a laser-sharp gaze Tucker's way.

Whoops.

"You been peeking at our cards?" asked one of the four card players left, budding anger replacing the fright on his face.

Drucilla said nothing in reply. She just leaned back in her chair, glaring icy daggers at Tucker. He wondered how long before he turned to an ice sculpture.

"Now you've done it," Marco muttered beside him, facepalming.

"'Terror of the Tides'," some nearby drunk mocked. "More like the 'Queen of the Cons'!"

This got the rest of the crowd riled up. Insults and threats fired off from every direction at Drucilla, the air of fear and tension she had so carefully forged now crumbling around her.

"You're in big trouble now, lady!" a sailor hollered.

"Yeah, she can't take all of us!" another chimed in, earning a chorus of cheers.

"Hold up!" hollered Scar Guy, hands up, trying to referee the situation. "Come on, are you all really going to believe what some kid says? Kids shout crazy things all the time!" He paused, then sheepishly scratched behind his head. "And… I'm just now realizing I'm also a kid who is shouting, so this must be wildly confusing advice."

One of the card players rose from his seat, reaching for a Pokéball at his waist. "Enough talk! Get her!"

Drucilla rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers. Behind her, Jynx splayed its palms forward, eyes sparkling. Before Tucker knew what was what, every last pirate and sailor in the room was violently yanked off their feet by some invisible strings. Their heads smacked against the ceiling with a loud thud, knocking them out cold. The noise died all at once and suddenly the only sound Tucker could hear was his own heart pounding in his chest.

With a wiggle of its fingers, Jynx let the bodies drop in piles on the floor. Drucilla threw down her cards with a huff and rose to her feet, motioning to the loot. As Jynx collected their earnings, the pirate queen stood up on the table, hands on her hips. "Seems we can't show our faces around here anymore," she muttered, scanning up and down the floor littered with unconscious. Then she looked up and singled out Scar Guy. "But that's the least of your crimes, my sweet pet."

Before Tucker could unlodge the question in his throat, his chaperon was already shuffling back toward the exit. "This was a mistake. A huge mistake!"

Tucker stared at him, gobsmacked. "Huh?"

"Abort!" Scar Guy hollered, turning to amscray. "Run for it, kid!"

Tucker only made it a step toward the doors before the floor ripped open behind him. Something curled around his ankle, snatching him before he could get away. He spun his torso to face the culprit. Beautiful red eyes and antennae rose to tower over him and Cubone, body thick and heavy as it looped around his lower legs and knees, holding him in place with strong, scaly coils.

"Milotic," the name came to him in a gasp.

Rather than drag them under, the serpent's tail scaled higher, wrapping like a vice around them and tucking them closer to its body until Tucker felt his arms go numb and his breath constrict. The more he struggled, the dizzier everything became. Cubone, too, went from frantic to suddenly limp against his chest, lost in the hypnotic colors and patterns of Milotic's tail.

A thud near the exit told him Scar Guy had been intercepted too, no doubt by Jynx. Tucker couldn't turn his head to check on the other's condition though. What he _could_ see as his vision began tunneling was Drucilla, strutting down the table toward them, wearing that same twisted smirk.

"What's your hurry, boys?" she asked innocently.

Tucker opened his mouth, if for no other reason than to beg mercy for his Cubone. He knew he might not get the chance again if he didn't wake up.

"What was that?" she teased, holding her hand to her ear.

But the words died on his breath, and she quickly melted into a blurry haze along with everything else.

* * *

Gio couldn't shake off Proto's comment from earlier. Just the idea that Archer had ulterior motives had now wormed its way into the front of his mind, eclipsing all other thoughts. He was no stranger to keeping secrets, so he could see the signs in others as well. It wasn't even Proto that had planted the seed in his mind though. He'd felt something was off from the moment Archer had so abruptly dismissed himself earlier without warning or explanation.

Paranoia now saw him marching below deck, straight toward Archer's quarters. His previous endeavors through Kanto and Johto had conditioned him to be distrustful of outsiders. Of course he didn't want to think of Archer as a stranger, but it was clear as day his friend was a changed man, and Gio wasn't so sure it was for the better. He had so many questions for the other man he hadn't thought to ask back in Viridian City. He'd been so caught up in the emotions of reuniting with an old friend that nothing else seemed to matter at the time.

But now it did matter. He was leaving Delia and so much behind on a potential suicide mission, and he had to be certain Archer's interests weren't counter to his own.

When he came to the door of Archer's cabin, he banged his fist twice against the metal frame.

"You may enter," a muffled voice answered.

Gio complied, pushing through the door. Archer's quarters were modest but definitely a tier above his own cabin. Two portholes overlooking the waters instead of just one. A single bunk built into the bulkhead. A desk to the corner, which Archer was perched right in front of. His hands on either side of him spread along the ridge of the wood frame, weight balanced gently and one ankle crossed. If that wasn't a telltale sign he was hiding something, then Gio was a Chansey.

"Am I interrupting something?" Gio asked hollowly.

"Not at all. I'm not important enough to be interrupted." Gio tried smiling, cheeks taut with the effort. Archer must have seen through it because his teal brows quirked up. "What can I do for you?"

Gio paced a small lap in front of his friend before stopping. After drawing in a full breath, he snapped his head up. "For starters, how about telling me the truth."

The Rocket commando cocked his head. "I don't follow."

Gio kept his face hard and crossed his arms; it was his turn to be on the assessing end of this 'friendship'. "Why did you really volunteer for this mission? What's your angle?"

The younger man laughed. "I told you. We're friends."

"Then why the secrecy?"

"Secrecy?"

"You know," Gio began vaguely, making hand gestures. "Acting all sly all the time, always speaking in riddles and metaphors, rushing down here to take care of some urgent business that apparently I can't be bothered to know about."

"I see," was all Archer said. There was defeat in that tone, but not enough as Gio would have liked. He frowned at the Rocket commando.

"You've changed, Archer," he said.

The other man smiled slightly. "And you're the same person you were all those years ago?"

"I…" Gio croaked from his throat, teeth barely opening to speak. When he knew he couldn't argue the point, he let out a defeated sigh, and recalibrated. Grilling his best friend over a few suspicions probably hadn't been the right approach, and now he was no better than Petrel and the others for giving him such a hard time. "I'm sorry."

Archer gave a sigh of his own and stepped away from the desk, letting Gio see behind him. "If you must know, there's a fine line between secrecy and privacy."

Gio leaned in close to examine the spread; writing utensils, an envelope, a sheet of paper half-scribbled. "What's all this?"

"The materials I asked my men to retrieve for me," Archer explained. "I was writing a letter to my folks back home. As a criminal, I have to be extra careful about when, where, and what I write."

Gio didn't speak; rather he bit down on his lower lip, squinting at the letter and wishing he could turn back the clock. After a self-shaming growl, he lowered his head and muttered, "I'm an idiot, aren't I?"

There was a chuckle in Archer's voice. "You're not. You're cautious. After everything you've been through, how could you not be?"

Gio sniffed. "You're quite the psychologist, aren't you?"

The other man started to laugh again, but Gio wasn't feeling it. Archer noticed and frowned. "I realize that because I'm with Team Rocket now, you might think I'm a sellout or a scumbag. You don't show it like the others do, but I see it in your eyes and hear it in your voice, Gio."

Gio couldn't bring himself to either sanction or dismiss the sentiment. He certainly wouldn't have worded it so harshly.

"I haven't forgotten my beginnings though," Archer carried on, leaning his weight back against the desk. "When the government crumbled and the economy collapsed, my family fell on hard times. We lost everything. But I remembered the strength you showed me when we were kids, the inner fire you taught me was necessary to become the feared instead of the fearful. I had to support my folks _somehow_ , didn't I?"

"So you joined Team Rocket," Gio inferred, this time without malice.

Archer nodded. "I did what I had to do. Just like you're doing now."

"And your folks approve?"

There was a long pause. "They know about it. They understand why I do what I do. That's all that matters."

Gio snorted, then immediately regretted it when he realized how envious it must have sounded.

Archer caught on. "I take it Delia doesn't know, does she? About Team Righteous?"

Gio shook his head vigorously. "She can never know."

The Rocket commando nodded, understanding but perhaps not agreeing. That seemed to be a pattern with him.

It was probably the idleness that allowed Gio the space to sigh and run a hand through his hair. "I haven't been completely honest with you either," he huffed, just as much an epiphany as a guilty confession. "The real reason I'm doing all of this is for _her_. As soon as the mission ends, so does my contract with Team Rocket. After we get back to Kanto, I'm out."

Archer looked at him slack-jawed, as though his words didn't quite compute. "You're the heir to Team Rocket, Gio."

Gio shook his head. "I don't care about that. I only care about Delia, about building a life with her."

Archer blinked at him for a moment, then seemed to accept it with a shrug and a good-natured smile. "Well. I hope she's worth it."

"She is."

"Then this has absolutely nothing to do with your father?"

A shudder crept across Gio's shoulders, but he shook it away and glared dubiously at his friend. Archer laughed, apparently finding humor in his reaction, then held up his palms.

"I noticed his journal sticking out of your back pocket the other day, is all."

"Oh," Gio muttered, sounding and feeling dumb all over again.

"What's the story there?"

Gio inhaled, then exhaled, deciding it best to just lay it all out on the table. "He's trapped in another dimension. I know that sounds nuts, but it's the truth. I promised I would find a way to save him."

"Sounds like you have quite a bit riding on this journey then," the smaller man assessed, stroking his chin. "Fortunately you won't be going at it alone."

Gio didn't like the sound of that. "A rescue operation isn't what you signed up for, Archer."

"I signed up to serve at your leisure," the other reassured with a smile. "Where you go, I follow. Simple as that."

A little self-conscious under the weight of such admiration, Gio scrubbed a hand over his face, laughing into his palm. "Even when you're a leader, you're still a follower. I guess that's one thing that hasn't changed."

Archer shrugged. "Contrary to what Petrel and the others might think, I haven't forgotten my roots. You helped make me the man I am today. That's a debt worth repaying a thousand times over."

Gio's cheeks burned red against his will, and turned his head away slightly. "If that's really what you want," he muttered.

"Oh, that reminds me," Archer said, turning back toward his desk. "There's something I've been meaning to give you but—"

A violent jolt rocked the ship, silencing Archer and nearly knocking them both off their feet. Archer grabbed the desk chair for balance, steadying Gio with his other hand.

When all went still, Gio glanced around fervently. "What the hell was that?"

"Sounds like we hit something," Archer huffed.

Gio's hand snapped to the Pokéball on his belt. "Or something hit _us_."

* * *

When Marco came to, he found himself pent in by darkness he couldn't blink away. He heard the muffled creaking of boat lines straining against their mooring and had to figure he was still somewhere near the harbor. He might have rubbed the sleep from his eyes if he wasn't numb from the shoulders down. He didn't even register he was bound to a beam until he tossed his head back and ended up smacking it against a hard, painful surface.

"Ouch," he groaned.

"Rested?" Drucilla's voice dripped from the shadows. "Good. I want you awake for this."

Before Marco could ask why, a dim light washed over the room. Until now, he thought he'd been bound by thick rope; now he could see it was Milotic binding his movements, fixing him upright and eye-level with its master. The pirate queen sat half in the shadows some feet across from him, a small table set before her. She feasted off a fancy silver tray, the lifeless eyes of a cooked and half-eaten Basculin staring into his soul. Of course she would dine on expensive imported delicacies. A pirate was a pirate.

He looked away from the gutted meal ogling him before his stomach could turn, twisting his head on crunched shoulders. Tucker's thick head of hair lolled in his periphery, bobbing to the rhythm of Militoc's shifting coils. The kid was still out cold, by the looks, and bound to the opposite side of the beam.

Great. First Sorhagen. Now some kid and his Cubone. How many more lives would fall into his lap before this assignment was over?

"Should have stayed away from that tavern," he muttered, more to himself than Drucilla.

"And yet here you are, bound to a post and watching me dine before your soon-to-be corpse," his host retorted, between forkfuls of Basculin. "Why might that be?"

Marco huffed in defeat, deciding there was no easing into this anymore. "I came to strike a bargain," he admitted.

"Or perhaps you have a death wish," she countered, the last word punctuated by her fork spearing into her meal. Maybe it was the way she was chewing, but the Russian he remembered in her voice from years back was either gone or buried. "You could have asked any other sailor for help, yet you came to me."

Marco tried shrugging, but Milotic's coils forbade it. "Any other sailor would have killed me," he reasoned.

"And you think I won't?" She moved to her feet, letting the fork clatter behind her as she swept toward him. He barely blinked before she was right in his face. "Do you feel it, Marco? Do you feel the fear eating away at your soul?"

"I can't feel much of anything right now," he grunted, trying and failing to wiggle his shoulders.

She leaned her head back. "Really? That won't do."

Without warning, Milotic squeezed him tighter. He wheezed unexpectedly, then played it off with a laugh. She raised her chin at him, almost as if impressed.

"You're not making this as fun as I'd hoped," she said. "Laughing in the face of death?"

"It's not that."

"Then what is so funny?"

"Your accent," he answered. "You ditched it."

She cackled, then brought up her finger to trace the scar snaking along his cheek. "Self-preservation. A funny voice sticks out just like a funny face does."

He frowned at the implication; apparently she'd spotted him during that card game long before Tucker had opened his big mouth.

"So. Death." From the mild, acerbic tone of her voice, Marco couldn't tell if she was joking until he felt Milotic's coils tighten again. Looking into Drucilla's cold eyes, he wondered where all the funny had gone.

"Death seems a little extreme," he gasped against the serpent's lung-crushing body, trying to keep calm, preserve his breath.

She crossed her arms over her slender curves. "Does it? When I could just as easily subject you to all sorts of unimaginable torture for all the trouble you've caused me?"

"What, that's not what _this_ is?"

"No. Not even close." She grinned. It was hard to tell how much of that twisted amusement was real, how much was verbal peachfuzz covering a hard bite underneath.

"Drucilla, listen," he rasped, using a friendly tone in hopes of knocking down some barriers. He opened and closed his mouth, reached for more words, failed to find them.

She ran a finger over his face again, dragging her nail until it bit flesh. He yelped, but she spoke over him. "First you backstab me, stealing half my supplies and smuggling them across _my own_ turf for your mafia friends."

"Oh, right. That." He was trying very hard to downplay the memory, make it seem like it wasn't worth remembering. "Technically it wasn't backstabbing since I was never really on your side—"

"And even when I managed to catch up to your flimsy little sailboat," she cut him off, tone turning pointed, "you and my loot disappear from thin air."

"That was my Kadabra," he corrected in a nervous chuckle. "And funny story, it was completely by accident—"

"And _now_ ," she silenced him again, "you have the nerve to show up with some loudmouth child and put an end to my lucrative card-playing career!"

His mouth fell open, but he said nothing. She stared at him, waiting, that dark pit of rage lurking behind her voice thirsting for a provocation. His hands were tied, and not just literally; he would have to take a crack at diplomacy or get himself killed trying.

"Okay, okay," he recalibrated, the tightening pressure on his chest still straining his voice. "Let's just focus on the first offense for now. That's the reason for all this bad blood, right?"

"Go ahead," she invited, indulging him, if only for the moment. "Try and talk your way out of this one. Make your last words count." There was humor in her voice but something else in her eyes.

He ignored the gibes. "It wasn't personal. I was just acting on orders! It was my first big job! I had to prove myself!"

She lifted a pink brow. "So you would have me blame your superior?"

"With all respect, blame whoever you want." He indicated Tucker with his brows. "Just leave _him_ out of it, will you?"

She went quiet for a moment. Her feet carried her to the other side of the beam where Tucker was bound. "Well? Who is he?"

For the kid's sake, Marco played dumb. "Some kid. No one important. Just let him go."

Before long, she stepped back into focus. "If his life is of no importance, why should I spare it?"

He sighed. "Really? Hurting a child? Come on, even _you_ wouldn't sink that low."

She leaned in close, threatening. "Try me, child," she hissed into his ear.

When she pulled back and returned to her table, he thought he was safe. Then she picked up the steak knife instead of the fork, and the panic set in again. "Okay, okay, just hold up," he begged, voice cracking as she approached with the utensil-turned-weapon. "I can make this right, Drucilla! As it happens, I'm on to something big! _Really_ big! That's why I'm here! I can cut you in!" It was the best peace offering he had. Even if he didn't want to extend it.

She snorted. "I don't want your money. I have money."

"Not money then," he croaked, haggling for his life. "Something more permanent. A prestigious position within Giuseppe's ranks, maybe?" The lie tasted empty on his tongue, and Milotic squeezed so tight his voice caught in his throat. "I'm… I'm serious! He could use someone with your combat experience! I can make it happen! I'm one of his lieutenants now!"

She sighed as if bored. "Even if I believed a word of that, I'm retired."

He wanted to humor that and spare himself a slit throat or crushed lung, but somehow sarcasm oozed out instead. "Yeah, nothing says hunkering down like terrorizing the seas."

She sniffed at his sass. "A girl has to make a living."

He couldn't suppress a chuckle. "Piracy, though? Really? Kind of beneath you, isn't it?" When she didn't answer, he decided to keep kissing ass. "Come on, you're _way_ better than this! Especially if the rumors about your last gig are true!"

"You don't quit being a criminal, Marco," she flared back. "You just go into another line of work." She brought her face next to his, bringing the tip of the knife to rest under his chin. That shut him up real quick. "But never will I go back to being someone else's foot soldier. I am my own master now, so what do you have to offer me that could possibly rival my freedom?"

"The chance for revenge," he blurted out the instant the lightbulb turned on in his head.

She pressed the knife closer, the serrated edges threatening to draw blood. "You've already given that to me."

He shook his head ever so carefully, finding his confidence again. "I don't think so. We both know there's someone you hate _way_ more than me."

She stepped back, eyes wide. He nodded, letting her know that he knew. If her reaction was anything to go by, then the rumors about her grudge against Team Rocket were true. He knew if he greased these wheels just right, he could make this work to his advantage.

After a drawn-out silence, she spoke, emotion thawing the ice in her voice. "The Rocket Empire took everything precious from me. I'm just now putting the pieces back together."

"You and Giuseppe both," he said off-handedly, and earned one of her frosty glares. Before he knew it, she was in his space again. He turned his head against the chill of her breath.

"I've earned the right to destroy Team Rocket _myself_ ," she snarled. "I've spent the last two years getting ready. I've sailed all over the world building up my army!"

Hearing that, a bell dinged in Marco's head. So the rumors _were_ true. Keefer hadn't just been blowing smoke after all.

"I've waited too long as it is," she continued. "I won't let your precious Giuseppe and his pitiful band of mobsters stand in the way of my vengeance. Do you hear me?" The silence that followed her spiel was thunderous. The fury pouring off of her practically roared, itching for blood, for vengeance.

"Giuseppe wants the same thing as you do," he tried to explain once it seemed safe enough to. "We're not your enemies."

She sniffed at that. A smile found its way back to her, but he wasn't sure it was a good thing. "That's just what an enemy whose life hangs in the balance would have me believe." She touched his face, brushing a stray blue bang out of his eyes. "Don't you know actions speak louder than words, my dearest Marco?"

He nodded, getting the picture. "Alright. Name your price."

"Sorhagen," she supplied without delay.

He morphed his face to look like a Slowpoke's. "Who?"

Anger flickered in her eyes again. "You know damn well who," she accused impatiently. "Kade Sorhagen, current Team Rocket Executive, former Vice Chairman of Briskomy, bald head, dark skin, flamboyant, annoying."

For Giuseppe, Marco refused to crack. "Sorry. Don't know him."

She lifted an unimpressed brow. "The Starmie I found in your knapsack says otherwise."

Damn. He'd forgotten about that. "It's _my_ Starmie," he lied quickly. "I caught it."

She was ready for that. "Oh? With a Briskoball? Those aren't in production anymore, last I checked."

Marco scraped his brain for an excuse, but it was pointless. She couldn't be bullshitted so easily. Even if he tried to deflect and offer her something else in exchange, she wouldn't bite. Her mind was set. She knew what she wanted and wasn't going to let go. She and Giuseppe really were two peas in a pod.

"Enough games," she growled. "I know the Saffron Mafia holds Sorhagen captive. So give him to me. Let me send him back to Madame Boss one finger at a time."

"I can't do that." He was tempting fate now, but that soft spot for Sorhagen notwithstanding, he knew his authority in the mafia only ran so deep. Sorhagen's life was Giuseppe's to gamble with, not his. If she was asking him to go above his friend's head, then, well, maybe he was ready to take that knife after all.

Her eyebrows drew together. "You can't, or you _won't_? Come now, wouldn't you rather him in your place?"

"It's not my call."

She gave him a hostile look that lingered unsettlingly long. "You're right. It isn't. A hostage doesn't consent to his own captivity, after all."

He swallowed. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning," she drew out the word, grabbing him by the ponytail and yanking hard. "If you won't give me what I want, then Giuseppe surely will after I ransom _you_."

Marco winced, half in pain and half in annoyance at her so-called plan. "Can we _please_ not make a hostage situation out of this? God knows there's already enough of that going around."

She let go of him and tapped the knife thoughtfully to her chin. "True," she considered. "It wouldn't be a fair trade, I suppose; some street-born urchin for a Team Rocket executive."

"Exactly," he sighed, relaxing.

Suddenly, the knife was resting on his Adam's apple again. "Which means we're back to square one," she hissed.

"Look, I can't give you Sorhagen," he exhaled, hoping she couldn't hear the way his voice wanted to tremble.

She scowled. "Then your death will have to suffice."

"But maybe I can give you someone better," he spat up before the blade could push in.

Her brow flew up, but the knife never flinched. She was waiting for him to finish.

"The heir to Team Rocket," he answered the question in her eyes.

She cocked her head. "The Ketchum runt."

"He doesn't go by Ketchum anymore."

Her gaze narrowed warily. "He's supposed to be dead."

"No more dead than his mother," he replied, noticing her lack of reaction. "But something tells me you already knew that."

She flung her arm out diagonally, the knife flashing toward him. It plunged into the wood of the beam like a stake, just shy of slicing his ear. So close he could have pissed himself. Then he saw her pacing laps in front of him, a promising sign, and let go of the breath he'd briefly thought was his last.

"Even if I wanted to go after him, it wouldn't be possible," she decided grudgingly, freezing in her tracks. "He's in too safe of a position. In case you haven't noticed, Kanto has been under martial law ever since the Rocket Empire fell. The Military Government has tightened border security as part of their feverous campaign to stamp out infectants like me. Even if I could strike that far inland with whatever manpower I could muster, I'd be taking too great a risk. I'm a fugitive, a war criminal wanted all throughout Kanto and Johto."

He smirked. "Then this is your lucky day. Giovanni's not in Kanto. You wouldn't be risking anything."

She glared demandingly at him. "Where is he? Tell me!"

"Sailing for the Sinnoh Region as we speak," he replied, not holding back, not when he finally had something to hold over her. "Giuseppe sent me to keep tabs on him." He briefly glanced down at his tangle. "Although it's not going so well at the moment."

"Clearly."

He shook off the slight, refocused. "Anyway, once my job is finished, he's all yours."

She cocked her head again, enough to make her pink hair sweep one shoulder. "You can lead me to him?"

"No." He tilted his head toward Tucker. "But _he_ can."

Her brows drew together, either in question or apprehension. She clearly wasn't sold just yet and needed more to go on than his word.

"He's a friend of Giovanni's," he explained. "Don't believe me? Reach into his back pocket."

She snapped her fingers and Milotic loosened its coils, sending Marco toppling to his hands and knees. Tucker and Cubone fell limp on the floor near him, and the pirate queen swept toward the unconscious boy. She rolled him onto his stomach with her boot and snatched the auto shop coupon sticking out of his pocket.

"Sakaki Parts and Repair," she read from it out loud before turning suspicious eyes up at Marco. "Sakaki?"

"Yeah," Marco gasped, sucking in the full breath of air he'd been denied until now. "It's Giovanni's surname now."

She smirked, looking down at Tucker, then at Marco again. "I wondered why you needed him alive. Now I know."

Once feeling crept back into his limbs, he rose to his feet. The floor seemed to rock, which told him they definitely weren't on solid land. "We need a ship, and captain to sail it." He stuck his hand out toward her. "What do you say? Truce?"

She closed the space between them, not even glancing at his hand. She craned her neck, her face dangerously close and forcing him back a few steps. "It seems you've once again managed to talk your way out of a bind. For now."

"Good to know," he said, swallowing.

"Welcome to my crew." She twisted around, patting a row of familiar Pokéballs resting on her belt behind her. "Until I get what I want, I'll be keeping your Pokémon with me."

He rubbed the back of his neck with a chuckle that ended up cracking at the end. "Little insurance policy, huh?"

"More like a precautionary measure," she crooned. "This way I can thwart any potential disappearing acts from you and your Kadabra. I learned my lesson from last time." She tossed a menacing smile over her shoulder. "But yes, the more collateral, the better."

He saw Milotic slithering toward Tucker, probably to enforce Drucilla's terms and confiscate Cubone. He knew that was something Tucker could _not_ wake up to. "The kid," he piped up. "Let him keep his Cubone, at least."

Drucilla signaled Milotic to halt but leered at Marco. "Is this some kind of trick?"

He shook his head. "If the kid smells trouble, he won't cooperate."

She laughed, teeth bared and threatening. "I think you'll find that's usually the _best_ time for someone to cooperate."

Marco bit the inside of his cheek, knowing he had to explain this better. "Thing is, he doesn't _know_ he's leading me to Giovanni. He doesn't even know who I am or what I'm after. Easier for everyone if we just keep it that way."

Her gaze slid distrustfully to Tucker. "What's his stake in all this?"

"Nothing," Marco assured her. "He's just a rookie Trainer looking to make his mark."

She gave an intrigued hum, but didn't remark on it, as though storing it away for later. "Very well," she decided after a pause. "He can keep his Cubone. A feeble Pokémon like that is hardly a threat to me anyway."

He nodded, setting free a sigh through his nostrils without being obvious about it. Legendaries. He couldn't believe it. He'd haggled his way down from a death sentence to probation in the span of one conversation. And saved the kid's life too. And Cubone's. And the damned mission on top of it all.

Legendaries, when the hell did sign up to be the local hero?

"I have some last-minute business to attend to at the docks," Drucilla said, breaking his train of thought. She crossed the room, yanking open a door in the shadows. Sunlight poured in, along with it a salty, seawater stench. "At sunset, the _Frost Blight_ sets sail, so you had best be on board when it does. Just know it won't be a pleasure cruise."

He felt Milotic's gaze drilling into the back of his skull, as if to emphasize the warning, then gave his new captain a mocking salute. "Aye, aye."

* * *

"Feels like something collided into the ship," Archer muttered once they emerged from below. Gio's gang and Archer's men were already formed up across the top deck.

"Nothing gets past you," Petrel mocked, his head whipping left and right. The churning of the waves suggested whatever had hit them was just warming up.

"What's in the water?" Gio asked, inching closer to the rail with his head craned. He couldn't see through the surface; the sea was too dark, the sun was too bright, reflecting back at him. It was worryingly calm as the ship idled like a sitting Psyduck.

"Nada clue," Rocco huffed behind him. "Think it coods be—"

Before the Scot could finish his guess, something leaped out of the water and vaulted over the deck. An inhuman screech rang out, silencing everyone on board. Gio caught sight of a long, serpentine tail splashing against the water on the port side of the ship. He'd seen a tail like that before, only smaller, not nearly as scaly or threatening.

"A sea serpent," Petrel squawked, blinking slowly like he was still processing what he'd just witnessed. "Great! We came all this way to be monster bait!"

Gio snapped over to the other side of the ship and peered overside. There wasn't a single ripple on the surface of the sea now, nothing that gave any indication to the location of the monster, or when it might strike next. He felt his chest tighten. Sure, he'd been in rougher spots than this throughout his travels, but Petrel and the others were totally out of their element. He would have to step up and play shepherd.

"Gyarados off the starboard bow!" someone in Archer's host yelled out, breaking Gio's focus. He tossed his head up and took in the sight of the sea serpent rearing its head from the depths several yards out.

Even from a distance, it looked ten times the menace of the Gyarados he had faced during his Cerulean Gym Battle. And unlike Crystal Waterflower's Gyarados, this one had a temper.

Archer was suddenly at his side, sharing his view of the beast. "Unsurprising," he remarked. "Ever since the Military Government started poking around their turf, they've reportedly become a lot more territorial."

Petrel's voice cracked behind them. "But why attack us? We're just passing through!"

Rocco sniffed. "Int it obvious? This metal hunk is hoachin' crates of dead Magikarp 'at reek somethin' fierce."

Gio growled low in his throat at the reminder. He'd forgotten they were more or less stowaways on a cargo ship.

"Wonderful!" Petrel exclaimed. "In other words, we hitched a ride on a floating snack platter!"

"Gyarados supposedly evolved from Magikarp," Archer pointed out, probably trying to calm Petrel's nerves. "They wouldn't eat their own kind."

"Aye," Rocco muttered. "But woods they eat _people_?"

"I say we test that theory!" Petrel squealed, frantically pointing to Archer. "All in favor of throwing the turncoat overboard so that we can get away safely?"

Gio shot the jokester a disapproving look. "Stop it, will you?" He knelt down when he spotted Meowth approaching and let the feline climb up to his shoulder. "Meowth and I defeated a Gyarados before. We can do it again."

Then, as if to dash that statement, a second Gyarados popped into view off the port side of the ship. It stared down the vessel, its scowling face static as if frozen in time.

"Crivens," Rocco cursed.

"I see it," growled Gio, standing his ground.

Petrel swallowed and pointed past Gio's shoulder. "He meant behind you, bossman."

Gio twisted on his heel, looking back over the rail. A third Gyarados was emerging from the sea behind the pack leader. Great.

Petrel's teeth chattered. "How about _three_ , Gio? Have you defeated _three_ Gyarados before?"

Gio exchanged glances with Meowth, then turned to answer the question. "First time for everything." He clutched the Pokéball at his waist and raised eyebrows at his cronies. "Petrel? Rocco? Are you with me?"

Archer cleared his throat into his fist. "If battling is the plan, perhaps you should use the Pokémon I supplied you with."

Swallowing his fear, if only to spite Archer, Petrel straightened and reached for his own Pokéball. "No dice," he snorted at the commando. "You just worry about yourself, turncoat."

Rocco nodded, shouldering past Archer. "Ye wanna help? 'En stand aside."

"Not a chance." Archer motioned to his grunts huddled at the center of the deck. "We're in, too."

An earsplitting roar from behind saw Gio jump slightly. He whipped his head over his shoulder and saw the pack leader looming closer. Its jaws fell open as it took aim at the freighter, and Gio knew immediately what was coming. Before he could holler for everyone to get down, the Hydro Pump was already inbound.

The water blast slammed into the hull, rocking the ship and knocking everyone off balance. As Gio collapsed against the rail, he saw an unlucky squad of Rocket grunts scurrying up the gangway take the brunt of the attack and fall overboard. He heard them plunk soon after, and clutching the rail, he pulled himself upright. He peered over the side. Below, the grunts splashed helplessly around in the water as the waves swallowed their Pokéballs.

"Agh..."

Gio whipped back around when he registered the disoriented groan as Archer's. The commando was slumped against a nearby shipping container, a Rocket grunt crouched on either side of him. Gio rushed to his friend, holding his head up and inspecting for concussions. No blood, but he could feel a slight bruise. By the looks, the jolt dealt to the ship had swept him off his feet, smacking him against the crate.

"You know, hiding below deck doesn't sound too bad right about now," Petrel piped up behind Gio, that earlier panic cracking through his voice again.

Gio ignored it and took Archer by the shoulders. "You alright? Stay with me, Archer."

"It's nothing," the commando groaned, head lolling in an effort to stay conscious. "My men. Save them, Gio."

Gio bit down on his bottom lip, then committed with a silent nod. As the two grunts lifted their leader by the arms and escorted him safely below deck, Gio spun to his group. Petrel and Rocco had already set free their Pokémon, and stood back to back in a defensive stance. The three Gyarados circled the ship from a distance, picking up speed on each pass.

"Dragon Rage," Gio deduced under his breath, quickly unclipping Skarmory's Pokéball. He wasted no time letting out his Pokémon and mounting it for takeoff. If the Gyarados planned to sink the ship safely from afar, then he and Meowth would just have to take the fight to them.

The violent rocking must have woken Ariana from her beauty nap, because now she was standing in the cabin doorway, gawking at the Gyarados. "Just look at the size of them! I've never seen such ugly beasts!"

"Relatives of yours, Ari?" Petrel teased.

She scowled at him. "Really? Jokes? Now?"

"It could be my last time, alright?" he justified, throwing up his arms. "I'm wigging out here!"

"Haud yer wheesht, baith of ya!" Rocco broke them up.

Gio nodded. "He's right! We have to coordinate! Ari, help those Rocket grunts that fell overboard! Petrel, Rocco, and I will deal with the Gyarados!"

Petrel swallowed. "We will, huh?"

Gio glared in lieu of repeating himself and everyone immediately set to their tasks. Petrel pointed his Koffing into battle, and Rocco and his Joltik followed suit. With a moody huff, Ari released her Arbok and ushered the cobra to the port side of the ship.

Gio briefly wondered where Proto was lazing about, but didn't give it a second thought as he held on tight to Skarmory's neck and spurred the steel bird into the air. They targeted the pack leader first, as it was the closest, and dove in close enough for Meowth to touchdown. The leader saw them approach and immediately broke off the cyclone formation, swinging its tail around to swat them down.

Skarmory expertly weaved aside, missing the mighty tail by a scale. Gio smirked, just a tad proud of the maneuver, and steered his Pokémon into a sharp turn to get in close behind Gyarados. Meowth didn't miss his cue and leaped off Gio's shoulder, clinging to the monster's hind fin.

"Yes!" Gio gritted triumphantly through his teeth, fisting the air. While Gyarods thrashed and contorted in an effort to shake off the feline, Gio didn't miss a beat. "Meowth, use Thunderbolt! Now!"

Sinking its claws in deep, the scratch cat let loose and plugged the beast full of electricity. Gyarados cried out until the attack's completion, teetered for a moment, then finally slumped into itself. Gio and Skarmory swooped in at the last second, nabbing Meowth just before the monster could faceplant into the sea.

Turning Skarmory back toward the ship, the wind whipping through his air and the blood rushing to his head, Gio couldn't stop smiling. He felt his pulse race, charged by adrenaline. Legendaries, he'd missed this. Nothing rekindled the battling spirit like real, heart-pumping danger, far away from the Gym, away from all its rules and regulations and weakling challengers. Nothing could fill the void of being apart from Delia, but at least he could find comfort in this _one_ luxury.

Gio spotted Ariana and Arbok fishing the marooned Rocket grunts out of the water using the cobra's tail. He was set on providing them cover when the second Gyarados of the pack suddenly burst from the water in front of him, cutting him off. He yanked hard on Skarmory's neck and the bird narrowly swerved, arcing back in the other direction.

But upon doubling back, the third Gyarados was already there waiting for them.

"Alright, then," Gio snarled, ready to charge. "Bring it!"

From the ship, Petrel's voice rang out. "Koffing, let's give 'em a gas they won't soon forget!"

The sky darkened, and Gio glanced up as a blanket of thick, purple fumes began to descend on them. Koffing came barreling out of the haze with a barely visible Joltik fastened to its face.

"Aye!" Rocco's voice shouted. "Do yer thing, Joltik!"

The tiny arachnid littered the waters around the Gyarados with electrical webbing, paralyzing them in short order and forcing them to endure Koffing's smog. Seeing his opening, Gio piloted Skarmory safely around the immobilized beasts and made for the ship again. This was falling into place much better than he'd hoped; while Rocco and Petrel kept the Gyardos occupied, he would see to Archer's wishes.

When they hit the deck, he dismounted and hurried to help Ari. He froze, though, when he spotted Proto sitting nestled between two large crates with another damn book hiding his face. Had the little bastard been hiding there this whole time?

"Proto!" he hollered. "A little help?"

"Kinda busy here," the boy sighed, not even looking up.

Gio balled his fists tight in frustration, but a thrashing in the corner of his eye spun him to attention. One of the Gyarados had broken through Joltik and Koffing's minefield, flailing around violently to shake off its status ailments. It fired Hydro Pumps left and right in its blind rage, one of which bulldozed some containers and blasted Proto across the deck.

When the boy came to, he coughed up water from his lungs and scrambled forward on all fours to retrieve his soaked text. "No, no, no, no," he babbled, the wet, soggy pages dissolving to mush in his fingers. "No! This was a first edition!"

Gio held up his hands in a calming gesture. "Easy, Proto. Pull it together."

Proto lifted his head, expression dark in a way Gio had never seen, a tic in his eyelid and a vein popping on his forehead. "Now I'm angry," he growled. He shot to his feet and let fly a Pokéball. "Damn Gyarados! I'm going to make you wish you never evolved! Zubat, Supersonic!"

Gio didn't stop Proto as he charged into battle alongside his Pokémon. Zubat, tiny little thing that it was, even managed to put in some work with its sound waves, enough to make the beast retreat underwater.

Ari and Arbok had just finished hoisting up the last Rocket grunt when Gyarados finally resurfaced, this time too close for comfort. Ari froze, caught in the predator's shadow at it towered over the boat. Arbok lunged forward but Gyarados effortlessly smacked it down, sending the smaller serpent colliding into Ari. She toppled on her side, yelling out in pain and clutching her arm.

Watching all of this, Gio raced toward her before she could be made a snack of. As the beast drew back its head, ready to strike, he realized he couldn't possibly intercept her in time. His only hope was to shout an order at Meowth.

But before he could decide on an attack, Petrel, of all people, charged out from between two upturned crates near Ari. "Smog Attack!" he shouted to his Koffing, who cannonballed itself at the beast's face and smothered it with fumes. Using the haze as cover, Petrel helped Ari to her feet and quickly led her away toward Gio and Proto.

"Don't expect a kiss," Ari muttered aside to her savior.

Gio swore Petrel blushed, but even if he did, he cut it down with a snappy, "Don't flatter yourself."

"Get her below," Gio said, noticing blood on Ari's arm; Arbok's scales apparently cut deep. "She needs that wound seen to."

Petrel nodded and walked her to the cabin door. Gio saw them off, then raced back into the action with Meowth in tow. At some point Zubat had joined Koffing in holding Gyarados at bay, both their Trainers shouting orders over each other.

Then Rocco jumped in. "Joltik! Thundershock!"

"You too, Meowth!" Gio hollered.

Twin bolts of lightning took down the final Gyarados, at last, and it fell beneath the waves with a splash that left all three boys and their Pokémon drenched in seawater. Gio wasn't bothered, not when they could have gotten off a lot worse. All things considered, his group had done exceptionally well. Even Petrel.

 _Especially_ Petrel.

Gio let go of a breath and turned to face the unexpected hero when he noticed him sauntering over. "So," he heaved. "Why the gallantry? When it comes to fighting something bigger than yourself, you're usually rushing in the _other_ direction."

Petrel recalled Koffing before answering, maybe needing a moment to think on it, then shrugged. "If she'd died, how else would I keep myself amused?"

Gio wasn't sure he bought that answer, but his train of thought blew away when he saw Archer and his men patrolling the deck again, surveying the damages. The commando seemed stable, if not a little exasperated, and his smile as he approached Gio's group was that of a proud, grateful comrade.

Coming to stand at the starboard, Archer signaled his men over and pointed to the three Gyarados floating unconscious. "Now's our chance. Take them."

The question on Gio's tongue went answered swiftly when the Rocket grunts started chucking empty Pokéballs overboard, racking up the slain Gyarados for themselves. Something tugged at Gio, the urge to speak up and call it unfair, but he swallowed it down. It wasn't his business. Archer was in Team Rocket now and simply doing his duty. And Gio had to focus on his own duty—to Delia and his father.

"Well fought," Archer congratulated, saluting Gio and his gang. Rocco and Petrel didn't look at all impressed though. "The mission hasn't even begun and already we've netted some handsome rewards to send back to headquarters. Madame Boss will be pleased."

"Just like a Team Rocket chump to cash in on our hard work," Petrel mouthed off, giving Archer the usual dirty look. "Ariana's fine, by the way. Thanks for asking."

"Well _I'm_ not fine," Proto pouted, still mourning his loss of precious literature. "But who cares who or _what_ you Team Rocket scum sacrifice as long as you get your praises."

Rocco nodded, wringing the seawater from his shirt. "Aye. Yoo're better at stealin' credit than ye are at stealin' Pokémon."

Archer smiled thinly. "Funny. Are you all quite finished?"

Proto rolled his eyes. "Why, you gonna rat on us to Giovanni like you used to, Archibald?"

Archer frowned, and Gio could see in his eyes an old wound being picked at. "You know I don't care for that name," he murmured, softer than his usual timbre voice.

"You always did like to run from things, Archibald," Petrel heckled, getting a laugh from the other guys. "Like when you ran away from Viridian City because you couldn't handle our crowd."

"My patience has limits," Archer warned, but his voice wavered a bit, and even Gio couldn't take it all that seriously. He felt bad for his friend. He didn't deserve this.

"Uh oh!" mocked Petrel. "You hear that, fellas? Now we've done it!"

Rocco fell to his knees. "Please, oh please, Agent Archibald! Hae mercy! Spaur us bawheid dobbers!"

Gio slammed his boot down. "Enough!"

Silence. All eyes turned to Gio, wide and startled.

Gio jabbed his finger in Petrel's direction. "You're full of shit, Petrel. He left Viridian City all those years ago because he was just a kid who didn't get a say. He joined Team Rocket because he wanted to get ahead in this world instead of letting it chew him up." Turning his head on his shoulders, he let his shaming gaze spill over Rocco and Proto as well. "He's not a traitor, he's a survivor. And how is that any different from the rest of you?"

None of them said anything. Typical. So Gio spoke in their place, eyeing his tallest crony first. "Petrel, after your family kicked you to the curb, you were living in a junkyard! When I formed Team Righteous, you were the first to sign up!"

Petrel's eyes cowered to his shoes, thumbs twiddling against his lap. He was too proud to own up to the facts spoken, of course, but he'd still been put in his place.

Next Gio turned his gaze to the smaller, green-haired boy. "Proto, you're just a kid," he pointed out in an exasperated breath. "You were still younger than Archer when last you saw him. Stop acting like a punk."

The bookworm sighed, shrugged and looked away unapologetically. He was still taking his destroyed property pretty hard, it seemed.

Finally, Gio got in the Scotsman's face. "And Rocco, who are you to judge? You're the biggest meiser here! I can't even ask you to do the simplest tasks without you charging a fee!"

"Aye," the other man mumbled, taking the slight.

Gio sighed, glancing over his shoulder. Archer looked rightly stunned by what was happening, but Gio didn't let it distract him. When he turned back to his posse, he deepened his frown. "You think he's weak for doing what he did, but I say it took guts."

After a pause, they all began to nod, but Gio needed more of a commitment than that. He held up his finger in warning. "No more sassing him," he ordered sharply. "No more teasing him. You will treat him with respect. As your leader, that is what I command. Understood?"

Scratching behind his head, Petrel stepped forward and tried playing off the tension with laughter, as he so often did. "Maybe I did come off a _little_ strong," he crooned. "I tend to have that effect. What can I say? I'm a theatrical guy!"

Proto stepped forward next, shooting Archer a glance. "Sorry for being a punk, I guess," he grumbled halfheartedly.

When it came Rocco's turn, the Scot surprised Gio by walking up to the commando and holding out his hand in a peace offering. "Nae hard feelings, eh?"

Archer looked to Gio, a grateful glint in his eye, then faced forward and shook Rocco's hand.

"Aye, great and good," Rocco huffed, clapping his hands together. "We're all square, yeah? That's pure barry! Now hoo abit we gang belaw deck an' drink till we're tanned?"

Petrel practically jumped at the suggestion. "Ah, yes! A reward for our act of heroism! Even if it's one we'll probably just forget about in the morning."

Still pouting, Proto began to follow after the older boys like a lost puppy. "If I can't lose myself in a good book, I guess a bottle of saki will suffice," he reasoned cheerlessly.

"You coming, bossman?" Petrel called to Gio.

"After I check in on Ari." He looked down at his soaked clothes. "And after I change."

Petrel's gaze slid to Archer. "What about you, Brody? Think you can keep up with us?"

Archer smiled, more at the invitation than at the prospect of drinking, if Gio had to guess. "I need to see to my wounded," he said. "You three enjoy yourselves though. You've earned it."

Once they disappeared below deck, Archer ordered the grunts standing around to clean up the toppled crates, leaving only Gio in his company. "Thank you for sticking up for me," he whispered. "It means a great deal."

Gio shrugged, deciding it wasn't worth mentioning, then remembered Meowth was still perched his shoulder when the Pokémon began shaking the water from his fur. He turned his head away from the splatter, then gave the feline's chin a well-earned scratch.

Archer hummed thoughtfully. "It's amazing how much they depend on you as a leader."

"I should hope so," Gio laughed dryly. "They're my Pokémon."

The smaller man shook his head. "I meant your gang. They really respect you."

Gio returned the smirk. "And now they'll respect _you_ too," he said, patting his friend's arm as he stepped around him. "You can thank me later."

* * *

Tucker woke up to Cubone poking him in the ribs with his bone club, and it barely felt like a few minutes had passed since slipping unconscious. He blinked several times, squinting into a bright orange sky, whiffing the sea salt air.

"Kew," his Pokémon chirped beside him.

Groaning, Tucker sat upright, rubbing his sore neck. "What happened? Are we dead?"

Cubone shook his head. "Kew, kew."

Tucker rotated his head. "Where's Scar Guy?"

"Right here," the older boy answered.

Tucker turned his torso, taking the offered hand next to him and pulling himself to his feet. He stretched the sleep from his arms and took a hard squint around. They were standing on a pier offshore the Laughing Cloyster.

"Something wrong?" Scar Guy asked.

Rolling his shoulders, Tucker looked at him. "We're still in Vermilion City," he said, confused. Why were they even still alive? He'd half expected Drucilla to tie anchors to their feet and toss them to the depths.

Scar Guy handed him his bag. "Not for much longer. I found us a ship."

Tucker took his luggage, traded wary glances with Cubone, then lifted his brows to the other boy. "How in the Heracross did you do that?"

"I negotiated," he said vaguely. When Tucker could only reply with a blank stare, Marco held up a finger. Tucker spun, gaze following where he was pointing until he spotted a ship bobbing at the end of the pier. It was large, and ominous, with black sails billowing in the wind, and black wood creaking menacingly. The prow of the ship pointed high over the dock, narrow and sharp like a javelin.

Tucker tried mentally filling in that long gap he'd slept through, and slouched forward when only one explanation popped into his head. "Oh no. Don't tell me."

"Okay, I won't."

"She almost killed us!" Tucker reminded, spinning sharply to Scar Guy.

"Almost."

"And we're just gonna trust her?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Can never trust a pirate."

"But then why would we—"

The older boy rolled his eyes as if the complaints were petty. "Do you want to get to Sinnoh or don't you? It's not too late to back out and go home, you know."

Hearing that, Tucker swallowed his reservations, his slouch snapping into a triumphant stand. "No way! Not a chance! We can handle ourselves, right, Cubone?"

"Kew!" the Pokémon agreed.

Scar Guy smirked. "Well then. Glad that's settled."

Slinging his suitcase strap over his shoulder, Tucker picked up Cubone and started following the blue-haired boy toward their waiting vessel. "So, how much are we gonna end up owing her for this trip?"

A pause. "Let's just say I made her an offer she couldn't refuse."

Tucker huffed, not really concerned about the logistics. "Whatever you say, Scar Guy."

"Marco."

Tucker looked up. "Huh?"

"My name," said the older boy, turning to face him. "Marco Sapone."

Tucker couldn't keep the shock from his voice. "I thought you didn't give your name to strangers."

Marco shrugged. "We're not really strangers anymore," he pointed out, then continued to set the pace, all business again as usual. A lone wolf even now, after being tied captive together at death's doorstep.

Tucker smiled to himself anyway, taking the small victory for what it was. That old saying about finding friends in the strangest of places was starting to ring true. Or maybe he just had a gift for attracting outcasts and underdogs like him.

* * *

Drucilla walked unflinchingly and in open view across the boatyard of The Laughing Cloyster. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Officer Jenny and her bumbling underlings clambering in and out of the bar, too distracted to notice the pirate queen. They were probably chasing their tails over her latest handiwork. She laughed haughtily in her throat, then turned her nose forward, kept walking.

She made it to the waterfront of a small, abandoned fishing port. She stayed close to the old, crumbling buildings lining the boardwalk and kept a watch on the pier in the distance where she'd left Marco and his blonde-headed pest near the _Frost Blight_. She wasn't worried about them making off with her ship. Jynx and Milotic had both boys on the end of a string even if they didn't know it.

She kicked the plank and looked around. No wonder the marina was closed—it was falling to pieces. The boardwalk and the adjoining docks were rotting and the line of boats still anchored were rusting where they floated, as if the owners had just shrugged their shoulders and went on their merry way. Hardly a surprise. Pokémon were more economical for sea travel in such a fragile recession. And more Pokémon on the open water always meant easier prey for her to poach. Not to mention easier getaways; the Military Government could only cover so much ocean, the fools. The sea was her turf.

The only part of the port that didn't look like it wasn't going to disintegrate before her eyes was the small, deserted boatyard office she had committed to memory earlier. She whipped around the side of the building and stopped when she found him there, right in the alley where she'd left him. Her first mate. Snoozing in a pile of old sea rope and fishing nets. A pair of boots casually flung over his eyes to block out the sunlight. His wiry, greasy green hair and mustache blew in the sea breeze. His enormous gut rose and fell to the tune of his snoring, threatening to burst through his shirt.

"Quartermaster Enzo," she uttered quietly.

He didn't stir. If anything, his snoring rumbled louder.

She scowled. "Enzo," she said again.

Still, nothing.

"Lawrence!" she hollered, slamming her foot down impatiently.

The large, round sailor jolted upright, his boots falling into his lap. "Huh? What? I was just looking at it, not touching, I swear!"

"Get up, you insufferable oaf!" she growled.

He blinked himself awake, squinted to make out her face, then immediately snapped to his feet and began wrestling his boots back on his feet. "Oh! Hey, General Crissel- whoops, I mean, Captain Drucilla!" The oaf's greetings were always cheerful. Too cheerful. "Sorry, still getting used to the whole alias thing!"

She glared hard at him. "Stop your sniveling and heed my words."

"Right, I'm sorry, so sorry," he blubbered on, as if deaf to what she'd just lectured him on. Legendaries. His endless cycle of ineptitude was unfathomable, especially after all she'd done for him. He likely still would have been a lowly, boot-licking cameraman if she hadn't entered his miserable life and recruited him out of pity.

When he finally ceased his yammering, she slowly turned toward the ocean. "Our time has come at last," she said.

"The time for what, Captain Crissela?"

"Captain _Drucilla_ ," she corrected him sharply. "We're still in public, fool."

His laughter was grating. "Right. Like I said, still adjusting. Doesn't really roll off the—"

"Be silent," she spoke over him, exiting the alley. When she heard him shuffling after her, she held her finger to trace the pier in the distance. "Look there."

He came up beside her, craning his lack of neck to squint. He must have managed to spot Marco and the child. "Who are they? New crew members or something?"

"They are my wayfinders," she replied softly, a hint of a smile licking at the corner of her lips. "They are the key to ridding the world of Team Rocket and all who would stand with them."

Enzo scratched the back of his cranium with that same dumb look on his face. "Really? A couple of kids? I don't get it."

She bit her tongue to keep the first words that rose from spilling out. The second words were: "It doesn't matter."

"Huh?"

"I have a task for you," she changed the subject, voice icy again as she spun her head at him. "I can't trust that rat Marco as far as I can throw him, so I'm sending you ahead of us to scope out the Sinnoh Region for me."

His jabbed his pudgy finger to his chest. "Me? Really?"

She nodded once. "Consider this a chance for you to prove your worth to me."

"But why Sinnoh?" he asked.

"All in good time, dearest Enzo. For now, you have your orders." She narrowed her eyes in warning. "But do _not_ fail me."

He scratched under his mustache. "Sure thing, but… what about the others?"

She nodded, prepared for that question. "Give the signal. Our forces depart Azark Island immediately."

His eyes bulged forth. " _All_ of them?"

"All of them," she repeated back to him with finality. "Tell them to look for my sails. On the morrow, Neo Torino goes to war."

Enzo's mouth worked mutely, and she noticed his Adam's apple bobbing to push the words out. "But captain," he finally squeaked, "are you sure we're ready?"

To that, she turned her head toward the sea and smirked. "More ready than Giovanni is."

* * *

The night was calm, deep and dark. Not to mention quiet, finally. Ariana sat on deck, perched on a crate as near to the prow as she dared. It should have felt nice being off her hooves after the commotion earlier, but the throbbing pain in her forearm spoiled it. Her hands were shaking a little, but she didn't need steady hands to wrap gauze around the cut. What she needed was two _free_ hands, damn it.

Sighing, she folded one leg over her lap, propping her injured wrist on it and wincing slightly from the strain. Her one free hand busied itself reapplying the flimsy bandage. The Rocket grunt that had dressed her wound had done such a half-assed job that the cloth was unraveling. And Gio and the others were blacked out drunk, last she checked, so she couldn't ask them for help.

She pressed the bandage back into place, but one of the tape strips wouldn't fasten, not without a second hand to hold it down. With a defeated grunt, she let it flop forward. Peaking over the rail, the moonlight stared back at her, reflecting off the surface of the ocean. The water was like a beautiful pane of unblemished glass, so calm, as if the incident with Gyarados had all been a dream. So quick were Gio and the guys to forgive, forget, and sail toward the next inevitable disaster.

Not her though. Archer may have guilt-tripped the rest of them into letting their guard down, but she wasn't sold. As far as she could tell, this mission was already a suicide run. What good was a reward if she ended up Gyarados chow? Or worse?

"Lost in thought?"

Ariana turned her head to the voice. Speak of the devil.

Archer smiled as he walked alongside the railing toward her. The nerve. "How much of the bottle did they polish off before passing out?"

She spared him a glance before setting to work again, snorting, "Which bottle?"

He laughed, and settled himself against the rail, right in front of her, without permission. The _absolute_ nerve. "You didn't partake?"

She shook her head. "I'd sooner drink from a barrel than put my lips anywhere near Rocco and Petrel's saliva."

A pause. "That looks like more than just a scratch," he said. When she didn't answer, he started to kneel in front of her. "Here, allow me—"

She smacked his hand away, wishing it had been his head instead, and made sure her glare let him know it. "I can do this on my own, thank you. Been doing it for years."

His teal brow shot up. "Years? Nursing your own injuries? One-handed?"

She rolled her eyes at his snark. "I didn't mean _me_."

He gave a little hum, a sardonic noise if she ever heard one, and watched her wrestle with the bandage some more. Legendaries, did it take all her strength not to slug him. He must have liked seeing her struggle. He was probably just waiting for her to ask for his help, the pompous jerk. He must have thought he was _so_ slick, a real smooth talker who fancied himself irresistible now that he was some bigshot. As if she would ever fall for his imagined charms. She'd fallen for him back when he had none, and that was a mistake she still retched to remember.

"Let me," Archer insisted, reaching over her lap. After warring with herself for a moment and making no progress with her arm, Ariana begrudgingly held it out toward him. She decided she still had the high ground. She hadn't asked for his help, after all; if anything, he'd practically begged her.

Archer pulled the bandage away from the gash, untangling it fully. The bleeding had stopped, more or less. The blood still oozing thinned and ran, and he wiped it away with a stray piece of gauze. She whimpered but didn't say anything. He was gentle, if nothing else. Of course, he'd always been a gentle soul. Gentle eyes. Gentle voice. Gentle skin.

Great. Now it was hitting her all over again why she fawned over this chump as a girl.

Carefully, Archer wrapped her arm, gauze first before reapplying the bandage. "Too tight?" he asked.

She shook her head. "You're pretty good at this," she muttered, making it sound more like an observation than a compliment.

He chuckled from somewhere deep in his chest. "When I first joined Team Rocket, they threw me in the nursing unit for the Banshee Brigade. I was a slow learner, but I learned. Had to start somewhere."

"Glad I could give you an excuse to show off," she grumbled, wincing as he continued to wrap.

He shrugged. "It's actually saved my life a few times. Back on the Sevii Islands, I had a Sharpedo once try and pull me under. I still have the teeth marks to prove it."

"Too bad it didn't finish the job."

He pretended not to hear the insult, even though she knew damn well he had. He finished his patch job and looked up from her arm. "You mentioned you've gotten good at this sort of thing yourself?"

She snorted. Way to deflect. "Not much to tell," she humored him anyway, rubbing the tender spot on her forearm. "Whenever Gio and Petrel and the rest of them would go out on their runs for Team Rocket, sometimes they'd take a tumble from their bikes and come back to me for patching up. Afterward, they'd just shrug it off, hop back on their bikes, and go right back to listening to their y-chromosome pea brains."

He offered a sad smile, as if she needed his pity. "It must be difficult being the only girl in a boys club."

"I like to think I'm the brain to their brawn. I see things they don't." She narrowed her eyes at him. "For instance, I know a bullshitter when I see one."

He either didn't pick up on her change in tone or just ignored it. "Good to know that we're both looking out for Giovanni's best interest."

She jumped off the crate, standing over him with both hands on her hips. "Cut the crap, Archibald. I'm on to you."

He slowly rose to her height, brows knitting. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, don't worry," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "I'll go along and follow your orders like a good little girl because that's what Giovanni wants." She lifted a finger and poked the air in front of him. "But let me make one thing clear. If you endanger him in any way on this cockamamie mission, I'll rip your heart out just like you ripped out mine all those years ago. Except, you know, literally!"

He looked at her as if she'd spoken another language. "Rip your heart out? Forgive me, but I think you're remembering wrong."

"Oh, do you now?" Creasing her brow, her eyes lingered on his face, on his annoyingly piercing blue eyes and oh-so sharp jawline. She wondered how hard she'd have to punch that jaw to knock him overboard. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

"I do," he repeated back, unflinching. "I think you like to imagine there was once something between us when there never was. Or is it possible you're just romanticizing a childhood crush because it was the closest thing to a romantic relationship you've ever had?"

Striking an offended pose, she bit out harshly, "I _am_ in a relationship. With Gio."

"Does he know this?"

"One reason," she threatened, holding up a finger again. "Give me even one reason to think you're up to no good and you'll be in for a world of pain." She attempted to step around him and let him stew over her threat, but his arm shot out in front of her.

"You might be disappointed in the result," he said, voice soft, of course, but also edged with something darker than snark yet gentler than menace. "The storms come and go, the waves toss and turn, the big fish eat the little fish, but I always stay afloat."

She wasn't sure what the hell to make of that, but his hand quickly fell back to his side, letting her pass. Swallowing, she started to make a hasty exit.

"Ariana," his voice halted her a moment later, though she didn't turn around. "I have it on good authority that you were the only one in Giovanni's circle to suggest merging with Team Rocket. Is this true?"

She wet her lips, but said nothing, just kept her back turned to him. How had he found that out?

"You may not trust me, but you're much like me. A climber." A proud smile crept into his voice. "The brains to the brawn, indeed."

She clenched her fists so tight that her nails cut into her palms. Was he propositioning her? Complimenting her? Tempting her? Trying to create division? Or maybe the opposite? Maybe he was trying to test her loyalties? Legendaries, he was such a frustrating headache of a man now. How had she ever fallen for him?

Then she let it go, relaxed, remembered she didn't have to waste her breath on him. Sure, maybe she'd made some comments once about the rewards to be reaped from joining Team Rocket, but those were just words. Her heart belonged to Gio. She would go wherever he went. That was all there was to it. She would prove that to Archer and Delia and everyone else trying to paint her as some self-serving opportunist.

Holding on tight to that confidence boost, she strut her way proudly below deck, leaving Archer alone beneath the moonlight. In some way, she sort of hoped he _did_ have ulterior motives. That way she could stomp all over them when they reared their ugly heads, and lord it over the guys forever. And maybe even open Gio's eyes to which person _truly_ had his best interests at heart.

* * *

Brutis turned his head up from the twinkling city lights lining the base of Mount Coronet. A rustling nearby had cleaved through the evening harmony of mountain gusts and chirping Kricketots. A shame. He wasn't much in the mood for killing. But going above ground always ran the risk of being sighted, no matter how remote the location. And Brutis never left witnesses alive to tell tales of robed figures lurking in the mountains. He had a reputation to maintain—or conceal, in this case. Such was the High Prophet's policy.

"Apostates. All of them."

It was Avis, her voice edged but quiet, even behind a voice scrambler. Brutis relaxed a bit, but kept his guard up. He listened to her settle into a crouch somewhere beside him but didn't turn his head. The contempt dripping from her words alone would have been enough to identify her. He could already feel her glare making the usual sweeps, furiously trying to set fire to the city folk and their merriment below.

After a long quiet, she uttered, "Part of me really wants to kill you right now."

He hummed on that. "Your honesty is refreshing. I bet you have lots of friends."

She seemed to take the jab seriously. "I've had friends."

He twisted his head, looking into her cowl, trying to picture her face, quivering bottom lip and all. "What can I do for you, Lady Avis?"

The Black Cloak looked over the cliff side, her agitated breathing amplified by her scrambler. "You promised you would help me, but all you've done is ignore me."

"You could do with a lesson in patience," he said, a threat more than a tip. "Not to mention subtlety. It's forbidden for Black Cloaks to don their cloth above ground. You know the law."

She squared her shoulders with stiff, brave martyrdom, but the crinkled anxiety in her posture told another story. Tried as she might, she was never very good at masking her fragility. "How soon do you leave?"

"Soon enough," he said, quick and curt, heading off the question. He didn't much appreciate her changing the subject.

"For how long?"

"Salvis will oversee all administrative matters in my absence," he assured her. "Bring your concerns to him."

There was a tense pause on her end. "Team Rocket. They're coming, aren't they?"

He turned his head sharply to her but kept his voice perfectly neutral. "Where did you learn this?"

"Jadis."

He frowned. Perhaps he'd let word of his plans travel too fast. "What else were you told?"

Silence. Nervous, if he had to guess. That was until she started muttering to herself, aimlessly and incoherently but quite audibly. Talking to ghosts, perhaps. Or the Lake Guardians she so often hallucinated. Or maybe it was that Hypno whom she cursed for her corroding mind and scattered memories.

Indeed, there was a tortured soul beneath that black hood of hers, spilling through the cracks each day, little by little. She was a petrified girl in a grown woman's body, so scared of the dark, yet shunned by the light. If the rest of the Coalition knew half of what Brutis had dug up on her, she'd have been shorn of her black cloak long ago and kicked back down to the mud that was the Bronze Fold.

Brutis smirked under his hood, then slowly stood as the night clouds opened up for him overhead. "Whatever you heard, keep it under your hood until I return."

She shot up on restless legs, tilting her head back to behold Zapdos descending on their position.

Just like that, he could feel her growing impatient again, frustrated, desperate, just on his gut and intuition alone. Oh, yes. He would make good use of her.

"You sent Zapdos to disrupt Team Rocket's communications," she stated rather than asked.

He mounted Zapdos for takeoff and nodded. "We couldn't allow Madame Boss to get a trace on us, now, could we?"

There was an unhinged crack in her voice, again augmented by her tech. "How much longer will you make me wait, Brutis? Just tell me! What happens now?"

"The gloves come off," he answered, just vague enough to get under her skin, before taking to the skies.

* * *

 **To Be Continued . . .**

 **A/N:** I had surgery last week so I've been out of work and found time to finish this chapter. Also, I made a character bio list on my profile page for anyone who might have trouble keeping track of new characters/remembering old ones.

 **Next Chapter:** Gio and his gang arrive in Sunyshore City and begin setting up their operations. Meanwhile, Tucker and Marco encounter complications while sailing with Crissela.


	12. Where New Leaves Breathe

.

.

 **Short Change Hero**

 **Chapter 12: Where New Leaves Breathe**

"I can't take them all!" Gio called to Tucker, twisting on his heel. "What are the chances that Cubone of yours can fight?"

Tucker looked down at his shuddering Pokémon companion, then back up at Gio. "Not good," he panted.

There was a look of disappointment from Gio that didn't sit well with Tucker, but it passed quickly when the older boy reached into his jacket and yanked out a Pokéball. He extended it toward Tucker, who could only gawk at the mechanism, floored.

"What's this about?" he gasped.

"Your first lesson in Pokémon Battling!" Gio exclaimed, rattling the device impatiently. "You really want to be a Pokémon Trainer? Well, time for some hands-on experience!"

Tucker pulled his smile back to a more respectable look and took in a deep breath. As his free hand came up to grab the Pokéball, a vicious crack of thunder made him flinch and turn his head up. A jagged streak of blue sundered the storm clouds in two, and for a flickering instant, he thought he saw Zapdostwo in the light that poured out.

That was all it took, and suddenly he was thrown back into his terrible nightmare, unwanted memories rushing into him like a flood. They carried him back to _that_ day. That moment in time he'd dreamt of over and over: Gio, on his knees, at the mercy of Zapdostwo and its maniacal rider.

And his mother, coming between it all.

Tucker ran toward her, as he did every night, but a glass wall knocked him flat on his back. He looked up as grains of sand spilled over his head, swiftly filling the hourglass encasing him. Beyond his prison, his mother had thrown herself before Marcus Difo's killing blow.

Tucker pounded his fists on the glass, trying desperately to break free, to save her in time. When it wasn't meant to be, he jerked his head away, shutting his eyes against the arching glare of the electrical blast.

It was done. She was gone. Always would be.

The sand rose higher, swallowing his legs, his arms, his shoulders, before finally claiming his breath. Then he heard the hourglass crack from the pressure.

This was usually when he woke up.

But when he opened his eyes, darkness reigned, and it wasn't a mattress or even shattered glass he was lying on. It was a pile of keys, he realized upon sitting up. Strange, multicolored keys with wild symbols on them. He sank his hand in deep, closing his fist around some and bringing them up for inspection. When he couldn't make heads or tails of them, he tossed them back to the pile and slid down the mound.

"Hello?" he called out to the void, stepping into the abyss. No answer came besides his own echo, but he felt something sharp poke into his side. He reached into his pocket.

Another key. Sleek, with an almost bluish tint.

He turned the object in his fingers, wondering what it meant, what it was supposed to unlock. Frustrated with guessing, he twisted on his heel and chucked the key back toward the pile.

From the darkness, a hand snatched it out of the hair.

Tucker shuffled back, startled. As the figure stepped out of the shadows and showed its face, Tucker saw it was his own face. Same blue eyes, same blonde hair, same clothes. It was like staring into a mirror.

"Who are you?" Tucker croaked at the lookalike, feeling stupid for asking it, but anxious for answers. "Where am I? What is this place?"

The reflection smiled wide. It was unsettling enough that Tucker stepped back another few paces.

"Who are you?" he demanded again, forcing past the lump in his throat.

"Your potential," the duplicate answered calmly.

"What?"

The fake slowly reached behind his back. When his hand reappeared, the key was gone and a Pokéball had taken its place. "You couldn't save her," he said. "But _I_ could have."

Slowly, Tucker began shaking his head. "I—I was just a kid."

The duplicate scowled. "Battle me," he demanded.

Tucker shook his head again, frowned. "No thanks."

"Battle me!"

"No!"

The doppelganger growled an animal-like growl from the back of his throat, and his eyes suddenly rolled back into his head. Tucker flinched back another step, caught off guard. He'd had bad dreams before, but always the same one. Never like this.

Rather than attack, the imitation vanished in a puff of smoke. When it cleared, the mountain of keys had turned to a mountain of bones. Perched atop it was a cowled figure, robed in all white, a silver beard flowing down from his hood and ending at the bottom of the ghastly heap. A cane rested in his lap, marked with all sorts of symbols, some of which Tucker recognized from the keys.

"Tell me," a hoarse voice spilled from the stranger's hood. "Are you the _one_?"

Tucker quirked a brow. "Am I the one what?"

The white phantom said nothing. He just stared down at the boy, and Tucker found his patience had run out.

"Come on, what is this about?" he raised his voice. "Who are you? What is this place? Why am I—"

* * *

Tucker shot up in his bed, nearly smacking his head against the top bunk as he did so. For a moment, he couldn't see anything, the tatters of that dark purgatory still blotting much of his surroundings, before fading. He took a deep breath in, then out, shaking his head in his failure to make sense of what had just happened.

"Who was that creep?" he wondered quietly, scrubbing a hand over his face. He turned his head on his shoulders, glancing down when he didn't hear Cubone snoozing next to him. The Pokémon was gone.

"Cubone?' he called out.

No answer.

Heart galloping, he checked under the blanket, then rolled off the mattress to look underneath the bunk next, the floorboards creaking as he dropped on all fours. When he found nothing, he shot to his feet and began pacing around the room. He cursed himself under his breath. What kind of Trainer goes and loses his first Pokémon? He should have known not to let his guard down on a pirate ship. He hadn't meant to doze off, but having gone without a wink of sleep since leaving Pallet Town had caught up to him hard and fast.

"Cubone!" he hollered, louder this time.

"Out here," a muffled voice answered overhead. Marco's voice.

Tucker relaxed with a sigh, and shoved on his sneakers. He left his cramp little quarters, walked up the steps and squinted against the sudden sunlight as he came up from belowdecks. The sea was quiet and the wind through his hair was soft, powerless to even dent his bedhead. He took a moment to rake his fingers through and right it himself, then crossed the main deck.

He found his Pokémon sitting on the rail of the _Frost Blight_ , Marco standing behind. Panic flickered through him until he realized Cubone was anything but scared. In fact, he looked pretty comfortable, and distracted, too, as he and Marco puttered with a line of rope.

"And then this end goes through like that," the blue-haired boy calmly demonstrated as the Pokémon watched on, stubby hands fiddling on his own bit of rope. "And this bit goes around like that and—there, done," he finished, holding up the knot. "Now you try."

Cubone fumbled with the rope for a minute and missed one step entirely, but soon enough and with a little help, he managed to get a semblance of a knot together. He beamed proudly up at Marco from behind his skull mask, then at Tucker. Tucker grinned, then quickly suppressed it as to not spoil the moment; getting Marco to come out of his shell probably hadn't been an easy job.

"Well done, now see if you can take it apart?" Marco challenged, watching on as the Pokémon struggled to undo his handiwork.

"Kew," the Pokémon chirped before eagerly setting to the task.

Tucker moved in to join them. "What are you two doing?"

Marco shrugged, leaning his elbows over the rail. "He came up here while I was brushing up on my reef knot technique, so I thought I'd show him the ropes. _Literally_."

Tucker lifted a brow. "Reef knot? For what?"

Marco pointed overside, drawing Tucker's gaze to a tiny rowboat suspended astern the ship's port.

"A rowboat?"

"Actually, it's called a dinghy," Marco corrected.

Tucker shrugged, unconcerned. "The line looks secure enough to me. What's left to tie?"

Marco avoided Tucker's eyes, focusing on Cubone's handiwork instead. "It's not the tying of knots I'm brushing up on, actually," he replied vaguely. "It's the _untying_."

There was some unspoken code or langue Tucker felt like he was supposed to be picking up on. Whatever it was, Marco put it behind them quick enough, twisting against the rail as he took in the spectacle of Drucilla's ship. Tucker followed his example.

The ship was impressive, he realized; he hadn't had time to drink in its appearance back in Vermilion City, but now he took in as much as he could. It really did sail like an old-fashioned pirate ship, like something out of one of his school-induced daydreams. The main body of the boat was made of painted wood, so dark it seemed almost black even in the rays of the sun. The rails matched the color, as did the three masts, each rising over ten meters high. Most impressive were the sea-stained black sails hanging from their gallants.

Tucker flashed a smile at his Pokémon, who'd gotten bored playing with rope. He pointed up to the great sails as they filled up with wind. "Can you believe we're on an actual pirate ship, Cubone?"

"Kew!"

Marco smirked at the younger boy. "Your tune changed real quick."

Tucker shrugged, not denying it. He'd been unsure at first about sailing with a pirate, but now that Kanto was miles behind him, he regretted nothing. There would still be heck to pay once his dad found out he wasn't out Pokémon Tech, but he'd cross that bridge when he got there. For now, he would enjoy the ride.

He leaned his head out over the rail, letting the wind chop at face as the vessel sliced through the water. He spotted pods of Wailmar splashing joyfully under the bowsprit, and a flock of Wingull casting shadows on the sails. Not even anchored yet and he was already seeing all sorts of Pokémon he would never have seen in his own backyard.

"Yeah, real pretty, isn't it?" Marco teased, bringing Tucker to focus. "Until it's not worth it anymore. Then again, you must have been pretty desperate to skip town to throw in with a pirate."

"Hey, I'd hitch a ride on a Gyarados if it meant never going back to school." Tucker glanced at his partner Pokémon. "No way are we going back now, right, Cubone?"

"Kew, kew!"

Marco chuckled, but it sounded weary, dry. He turned toward the sea, leaning into the rail much as Tucker was. His mouth pulled down at the corners.

"What is it?" Tucker asked.

The older boy shook his head. "Nothin' much," he sighed. "Just so used to smuggling goods where they needed to go. Never thought I'd be smuggling myself and some kid and his Cubone."

The wording stumped Tucker. "I thought you were a pirate like Drucilla."

" _Smuggler_."

"What's the difference?"

"Smugglers work under the radar."

At the risk of seeming dumb, Tucker cocked his head. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning, if you're a smuggler and you're famous for it, you're doing it wrong," the other educated, this time at Tucker's expense.

The young Oak shrugged it off. "Well, you got us this far," he reasoned, glancing out over the deck. "So you gotta be doing _something_ right."

"Kew!" Cubone concurred.

"He says 'thank you'," Tucker translated with a beaming smile.

Marco slanted his head doubtfully. "Did he now?"

"That," Tucker paused, "or maybe he's just hungry."

Marco rolled his eyes, which Tucker chose to take as bottled laughter. The older boy let his gaze linger on Cubone a while longer before speaking again. "Gotta say, I'm impressed. Ground Types don't usually do well on water."

Tucker laughed. It bubbled out of him, light and carefree, and he held Cubone securely by the waist as choppier waves rocked the ship. "Aww, he doesn't know any better. Spent most of his life on a tree stump."

"Doesn't know enough to be afraid, you mean," Marco observed, a small smirk on his face as he watched the blonde. "Wonder where he gets that from."

It was lighthearted teasing, but it struck something in Tucker. He hid it well enough with a playful grin, though.

Marco pushed away from the rail, stretching. "Why don't you sleep a little longer? I might take a snooze myself. Gonna be another day, at least, before we make port."

"Too excited to sleep," Tucker half-lied, not in a hurry to go revisit that bizarre nightmare. "What do you think it's like in Sinnoh?'

"Never been."

Tucker leaned over the deck again, the gears of his imagination turning as the horizon bled into the water and clouds. "Just think of all the new Pokémon waiting for us, Cubone. And we're gonna catch them all!"

Marco made a cheeky sound. "Good luck with that."

"What are you two conspiring about?" came a new voice.

Tucker pivoted, reflexively pulling Cubone safely to him. Drucilla, just climbing down the rigging overhead, stopped and hung there in the air. Her cold gaze swept back and forth between the two boys as she waited for an answer.

Marco gave a loud, exaggerated exhale. "Oh, we were just talking about how we're going to mutiny against you and steal your ship."

Tucker stiffened at those words for the half-second they took to register as a joke. Legendaries, he just couldn't keep up sometimes.

"Funny," Drucilla sniffed without humor, jumping down to their level. "Besides, the two of you alone couldn't sail the _Frost Blight_."

" _You_ manage just fine," Marco pointed out.

Scanning around the deck, Tucker couldn't help nodding. "Yeah, come to think of it, who's steering right now if you're here with us? Where's your crew?"

She planted her hands on her hips, standing rigid and defiant. "You're looking at it, little boy."

Tucker didn't catch her meaning until Marco tapped his shoulder and pointed to the bow of the ship. There stood Jynx, still as ice, hands splayed toward the prow and the vast sea before it, as if to quiet the waves and forge the way ahead.

Then, doing a double take of the ship, Tucker noticed how the sails, yards, and mooring all seemed to move and function on their own, without any riggers or boatswains or swabbies to operate them. Leaning back on his haunches and angling his head just right, he could even make out the ship's wheel on the top deck turning left and right of its own will, almost as if a ghost was at the helm.

The ship, for better or worse, was literally steering itself.

Or Jynx was, anyway.

"Psychic, remember?" Marco whispered to Tucker.

The blonde didn't hide the amazement in his voice. "I didn't know a Jynx could be _that_ powerful."

"You'd better believe it, little boy," Drucilla said, sharp and prideful. "Jynx controls all of the ship's functions. You don't think I came to be the most feared pirate in Kanto without a little help, do you?"

Tucker rubbed behind his neck, then through his hair, eyeing up the blue Pokéball attached to her belt. "Actually I thought owning a Legendary Pokémon might have had something to do with it."

"Tucker," Marco scoffed quietly.

Tucker shrugged, not seeing the harm. "What? If I had an Articuno, I'd sure as heck want people to know about it!"

The mention of the Legendary Pokémon must have touched a nerve with her. "Apparently Marco has just as big a mouth as you," she muttered, causing Marco to sheepishly look anywhere else. Even so, she unclasped the Pokéball in question, sighing. "Sorry to disappoint you boys, but there's no Articuno in _this_ Pokéball."

Tucker inched closer to the sphere. "What's in there then?"

She pulled it back just before Cubone could reach for it, smirking. "Guess right and maybe I'll show you."

"A Moltres?"

"Colder."

Tucker bit the inside of his cheek, thinking hard. "An Arcanine?"

"Much colder."

"Didn't you used to have a Donphan?" Marco asked, throwing out his own guess.

"Used to," she said. "Traded it to some amberite farmers in the Orange Islands."

"Traded for what?"

She rattled the mysterious Pokéball by way of answering, lips spreading into another sharp smile.

The suspense became too much for Tucker. "Aw, come on! I'm pulling my hair out here!"

She caved, tossing up the Pokéball high above her head. A beam of red splashed down on the deck, and a Ninetales emerged from the light. At least, Tucker _thought_ it was a Ninetales. He couldn't be sure. Anatomically, it fit the description, but its coat was wispy like fog and crystal blue, as if glazed in frost.

"Is that a—"

"A variant of it, yes," Drucilla cut him off. He reached out his hand, but the canine snapped at him, making him pull back. Drucilla gave a harsh laugh that had an edge of hysteria to it. "Don't let its beauty fool you."

"Surprised you didn't just steal it," Marco quipped.

She snorted. "I may as well have. The sea is my mistress now and Ground-Types are useless on water." She punctuated the statement with a glare pointed at Cubone, then recentered her gaze. "Donphan was dead weight. Ice and Water Types are much more to my liking."

"Except Ninetales are Fire-Type, last I checked," Marco snarked back.

She skimmer a hand over her Pokémon's luscious fur. "You didn't know? This Ninetales comes from the Alola Region."

Tucker threw up his arms, vindication never tasting so sweet! _This_ was why he'd needed to get out of the bubble he was living in! To see crazy, awesome stuff like this! How could his dad not see that?

Marco narrowed his eyes at the Pokémon. "What was an Alolan Ninetales doing in the Orange Islands?"

"It wasn't," she said. "I traded Donphan for a standard Ninetales, then sailed to Ula'ula Island and upgraded." Her grin suddenly had something feral in it. "Believe or not, some Pokémon we think ordinary in Kanto are to _kill_ for in other parts of the world."

"And you profit," Marco gleaned.

Sighing, she returned Nintales to its Pokéball. "It's not about the money, Marco. It's never been. I'm not in the money business. I'm in the _power_ business."

The cold statement plucked a string inside Tucker, and he balled his fists tight at his sides. "Pokémon are Pokémon," he sniped back at her. "They're not just some trophies or merchandise."

She craned her head at him. "And what makes you such an expert, little boy?"

"Because I'm Tucker Oak," he proclaimed. "Son of the greatest Pokémon Researcher in Kanto!"

Her head drew back sharply. "Oak," she parroted, blinking at him.

"That's right," he said, puffing out his chest, "and don't you forget it!"

"I won't." Her lip curled in something between a smile and a snarl. Then, sharply, she strode off the foredeck without looking back.

Next to Tucker, Marco sighed out his disappointment. "You ever heard the saying 'don't poke the Ursaring'? Seriously, do you _want_ to end up tied to a beam again? Or worse?"

"She doesn't scare us," Tucker said, speaking for his Pokémon too. "If anything, I think I impressed her."

"Now _there's_ a trick," Marco mumbled under his breath.

Tucker quirked a brow. "One you never picked up, sounds like. She must _really_ hate your guts."

"Understatement of the century."

"What's her beef with you anyway?"

Marco paused at the question. Maybe it was a sore spot for him. "She has it out for Team Rocket, and I got in her way once," he murmured. His head dropped a little, as if ashamed. "Truth is... I'm a member of the Saffron Mafia."

The name meant nothing to Tucker, and he exchanged curious glances with Cubone before refocusing. "What's that? Some kind of club?"

"I'm a criminal, kid. A mobster." He caught Tucker's incredulous look out of the corner of his eye and sighed, raising his eyebrows. "You know, like, a capo? A wiseguy? Ever watch any gangster movies? At all?"

Tucker frowned slightly, hoping this didn't mean what he thought, and refusing to bite back the next question on his tongue. "So… you steal Pokémon? Like Team Rocket and Team Righteous?"

He shook his head, and Tucker sagged in relief. "Nope. I just transport them across enemy turf. I told you, I'm a smuggler."

Tucker nodded, even if it was still a lot to take on faith. Criminals we're exactly known for their honesty.

"I'm not a thief," Marco reassured firmly, picking up on the younger boy's lingering doubts, "and I'm not a liar. If I wanted to take your Cubone, don't you think I would have by now?"

Tucker shrugged, unable to argue that. "I guess," he mumbled.

"Besides," Marco continued, quieting his voice and speaking out of the corner of his mouth now as he hunched into the rail, "it's not _me_ you should be on your toes around."

There was a soft vulnerability in his voice that caught Tucker off-guard—he'd been expecting Marco to crack a joke. Even so, he leaned in next to his friend, listening carefully. Apparently whatever they had to hash out next wasn't meant for pirate ears.

Marco's eyes darted left, then right, and he gnawed on his lower lip before pressing on. "Hypothetically speaking, how fast can you swim?"

"Why?"

He wet his lips, a nervous reflex Tucker recognized. "Because, at some point, we're gonna have to abandon ship."

Tucker lifted his brow. "As in, _hypothetically_ abandon ship?"

"No, as in, _literally_ jump overboard and get the hell away from this crazy broad."

Tucker flinched, processing that mouthful. "Wait, then, you... weren't joking about all that mutiny stuff?"

He shook his blue head. "Nope. I just needed her to think I was. Now she won't expect it when it comes time to ditch her."

" _Ditch_ her?" Tucker repeated back, voice cracking high. Marco motioned him quiet and he immediately fixed his volume. "But I don't get it. I thought we needed her!"

"We needed her _ship_ ," the older boy clarified, gripping the rail. "As soon as we see the coast, we make like a Double Team and split."

Tucker tapped his foot against the deck undecidedly. For all his optimism and imagination, he couldn't give this plan his seal just yet. "How are we gonna pull that off? As soon as she realizes we're gone, she'll catch up to us."

Marco was ready for that. "Not if we're too fast. I have a Starmie."

"Where is it then?"

"With Drucilla," he whispered. "She confiscated my Pokéballs."

"Wait, she took your Pokémon?" Tucker bristled, that fire within him stoked again.

"Volume," Marco reminded softly. Tucker nodded and exhaled, calming down.

"Right, sorry."

Marco glanced over his shoulder to make sure Drucilla wasn't in hearing range, then refocused. "We'll get my Pokémon back," he said, even if the exasperation in his voice wasn't too reassuring. "We'll need to if this is going to work. And Cubone's going to help us. Drucilla was going to nab him too but I talked her out of it. I figured he'd come in handy."

Tucker felt his shoulders tense up. He wasn't upset, but he was sure as heck confused. This was too much being unloaded on him too fast. Until a minute ago, he thought they'd all been on good—or at least, _decent_ —terms. So much for smooth sailing.

"I know it's a lot," Marco read his expression.

"I just don't get it," huffed Tucker. "What happened? I thought you said you made her an offer she couldn't refuse."

"I did," the other boy said slowly, coyly, scratching at his neck. "It's... also one I can't deliver on. Hence why we need to amscray at the first opportunity."

Tucker let a small smirk slide out; he was starting to see another side to Marco besides the nervous haggler. As it turned out, he was also a schemer. And Tucker was no stranger in that department. If this was what it took to get to Sinnoh, then fine, he was ready to do his part. And so was Cubone.

"What are you smiling at?" Marco asked, his tone afraid of the answer.

"Nothin," Tucker laughed at him, shaking his head. "You're just way more daring than you let on."

Marco didn't seem to take it as a compliment. "I'm a survivalist," he said, swallowing around the last word. Before Tucker could read into it, Marco held up his hand. "Look, until I tell you otherwise, just act normal."

Tucker straightened, and dropped the subject with a salute. "Normal. Got it."

"Normal for _you_ , I mean," the smuggler added, turning to leave.

"Right. Normal for—" It took Tucker a second, then he bristled. "Hey, wait, what's that supposed to mean?"

* * *

Air much colder than Gio was used to nipped at his ears and nose when he came up from his cabin. He might have chalked it up to the usual morning brisk, but the scent of pine and crisp, fresh streams wafted on the breeze. It didn't seem to bother the various Rocket grunts zipping to and fro across the deck. He heard Archer shouting orders from somewhere below, spurring them on, and the ground echoed with the thud of crates being moved and the rattling of the winches.

Inhaling again, the dread set in. Land ho.

He followed the aroma to the prow of the boat, his grip tight on the rail as the rolling waves carried them toward Sinnoh's mainland. He'd forgotten Meowth was perched on his shoulder until he heard the feline yelp in awe, and blinking ahead, he would have been hard-pressed to disagree. There was so much to look at that he didn't know where to focus. As far as he could tell, the entire region was one sprawling mountain, so vast and so large it made Mount Silver look like a pebble and Mount Moon a spec by comparison. The elaborate bends, ridges and grooves weaved together to compose something almost claylike, as if sculpted by divine hands.

Endless, rolling sequences forest greens and blues popped like a painting come to life, slowly melting into treacherous brown and gray pastels the further his gaze climbed. The peaks reached so high into the clouds, in fact, his neck ached. How in the name of Moltres was he supposed to comb through all of that? He expected to grow old searching every nook and crevice for an entrance to the Distortion World. Even if his father had the patience for it, he wasn't so sure about himself.

Needle in a haystack. That's what this was.

Then there was Sunyshore City in all its glittering radiance. Nature and civilization seemed to meet halfway as its modest buildings and structures stood like diamond stubble, nestled between the waterfront and the rolling hills coating the mountain face in a green fuzz. Legendaries, the colors, the contrasts. What was it about this region that made everything pop so vibrantly? It was an optical migraine, that's what is was.

And it wasn't home at all.

The ship bellowed its intent to anchor, and suddenly it hit Gio how little ocean was left between them and Sunyshore's harbor. The mountains loomed higher without warning, the smells of this strange new land hit harder, the wind colder. Above, a flock of Starly and Staravia circled the ship like curious spies, casting shadows across the deck and sirening the arrival of outsiders coming to their shores.

His heartbeat quickened, like thunder rumbling in his chest. "We're definitely not in Kanto anymore," he whispered to Meowth.

A laugh answered. It was Archer coming to stand beside them. "Indeed," the Rocket said. "Welcome to Sinnoh."

The word 'welcome' drew a snort from Gio, and he narrowed his eyes. "We'll see," he muttered.

 **TO BE CONTINUED . . .**

* * *

 **A/N:** Short chapter, I know, especially after such a long wait between updates. Sorry, just have a lot going on. I'll try to be better. For anyone interest, I've also uploaded this story to AO3 (Archive of our Own), which includes pictures.

 **Next Chapter:** Gio and his gang struggle to settle in their new environment; Tucker and Marco attempt a mutiny.


	13. Under Pressure

.

.

 **Short Change Hero**

 **Chapter 13: Under Pressure**

"Whoever this guy is, he'll probably want to talk first," Gio said without preamble. His hands gripped the rail so tight it could have snapped. "If he's anything like my mother, we can expect a lot of gloating, boasting, acting like a prat. You know the type."

Archer nodded. "I'm familiar."

"He'll have guards in the room, though. Probably armed."

"A wise precaution."

"Pokémon, too."

"Of course, but Gio—"

"They'll probably be well trained, now that I think about it."

"Gio."

"Not that we have much to worry about. They wouldn't bring us all this way just to kill us."

"Gio," Archer repeated, concern in his voice. Gio flicked his eyes to his friend, did his best to keep his face a brick wall.

"What?"

"You're a nervous talker."

Before Gio could deny it, Petrel popped out from the galley and joined them on the bow. "Nervous? Of this place? Maybe you need those eyes of yours checked!" He threw his arm around Gio's neck, as if to swing from it. His free hand gestured in front of them in a wide arc, framing the mountainscape like a postcard. "Fresh air, sunny skies, hills and valleys as green as emerald! Fellas, I dare say we've found our new vacation spot."

"Yeah, sure, it's all glamorous and exciting in the beginning," Gio grumbled, reflecting back on his last two journeys, "but then later there's running... and screaming."

Petrel clapped him on the back, almost sending him stumbling into the bow. "Oh, don't be such a stick-in-the-mud, bossman! A change of scenery is just what our merry band needs! Especially _you_ ," he enunciated, lightly jabbing Gio's chest, "what with your lady troubles and all. It might help you to, you know, clear out your head."

Gio jerked his shoulders, shrugging Petrel off him. "How about _you_ clear out of my _sight_ and make ready to help unload the equipment?"

"Fine, fine. And while I do that, you work on lightening up? Just a smidge?" His laughter fell away, stifled by a sharp glare from Gio. The prankster threw up his palms and began to back away, the message clear. "Alright, alright, I'm going!"

Once Petrel disappeared around the corner, Gio stiffly turned himself toward the prow again. Archer's voice crept past the silence though. "He's not wrong."

Gio glanced at his friend out of the corner of his eye. "We're here on business, not to have fun," he muttered.

"A harmless business transaction wouldn't have you this anxious," the other observed.

"Who says I'm anxious?" It sounded defensive even to Gio's own ears, and he wished he could suck it back in. Archer noticed—of course he did, and the concern drews his brows together as he knocked his elbow against Gio in an attempt to cheer him up.

"We'll find your father," the younger man vowed. "This I promise you. But first we have other commitments that must take priority. Wallowing won't speed up time, so you may as well try and relax while we're here."

Gio shifted his shoulders in an effort to renew his posture, embarrassment and defiance prickling at the muscles there. He didn't know what was in his own face, but he was fairly certain he was showing more of his cards than he should for Archer to read him so flawlessly.

"Remember that you set an example to follow," his friend counseled. "If you're not confident in this assignment, the performance of your men will suffer for it. A body cannot function without a head. Nor can a head without a sound mind." He smiled. "Or so you taught me once."

Gio hesitated, and his eyes dropped for only an instant; then they returned to Archer's, harder, and held his chin high. "Right," he said, firming his voice. He turned from the bow, willing his feet into motion. "Come on, let's get off this tuna can."

He went belowdecks, Meowth following at his heels as he weaved through hosts of Rocket grunts milling through the hallways in a frenzy. When he got to his cabin, he shut the door against the ruckus and drew in a breath, taking a moment to himself. He'd said what he'd needed to say to get Archer off his back, but something still weighed heavy on him. And it wasn't cold feet, per se. There was just something about this land. He'd felt it in his gut the moment he'd set eyes on Mount Coronet. An ugliness beneath all the beauty.

Or perhaps he'd picked up his own scent.

The loud blast from the carrier's horn rang through his thoughts, and the floor tipped left and right as he felt the ship weigh anchor. He gathered his luggage together. He could have called one of Archer's cronies to help, but there was hardly enough to worry about, so he hefted the larger of the two cases and edged out of the narrow cabin doorway.

He and Meowth followed the assembly line of crewmen out of the corridors and up to the aft deck. His own men and Archer's were already convened when the loading ramps came down. The gangplank stretched from the ship to the dockside, only a glimpse of crystal blue water between the hull and the pilings, the ramp rising and falling with each swell. The Lucky Karps workers set to their business first, unloading their foul-smelling merchandise one crate at a time, which, frankly, Gio couldn't have been happier about. He'd come to a conclusion after only an hour at sea; dead Magikarp were more dangerous than live ones solely because of the suffocating stench.

Archer's own men stormed the gangplank next, a number of them hefting down shipping crates full of equipment and gear. They seemed careful enough handling them, but Gio was anxious to pop open whichever container held Diamond Dust and inspect for damages. He'd poured too much sweat and tears into that bike for it to be scratched up by clumsy Rockets.

Once the ramp was clear, Gio signaled his gang, and Ariana hightailed down to the waterfront before anyone else; after whining about being seasick the entire trip, it was to be expected. Petrel kept in step behind her, laughing all the while, and Proto followed him soon after, letting out a yawn that rivaled a Snorlax's.

"Give you a hand, sir?"

Gio blinked to attention, turning his head to discover a young Rocket grunt standing off to his side, pointing at his belongings. The kid couldn't have been older than fourteen, maybe fifteen, Gio guessed. Leave it to his mother to pick them ripe and fresh off the vine; the younger and more naive, the cheaper to buy off, apparently.

"Sure, thanks," he permitted in a grumble, and handed over the heavier of the two cases. This freed up a hand to grip the railing as he wobbled the short distance off the ship, trying to get his land legs back. From atop his shoulder, Meowth steered him straight and true, and his steps evened out quickly enough.

Whereas the Vermilion Harbor was a congested cesspool of noisy tourists and sailors, Sunyshore's port yard was the picture of calm. A few dock workers hauled shipping containers along the moorings, and a family and their Glameow strolled down the pier further up shore, their laughter barely a scratch against the waves. Below them, a jogger and his Croagunk tore up and down the winding, white beach wrapping around the city. None of them spared Gio or his group a glance though, content in their own distractions. There was no welcome party, no red carpet, no one whatsoever to receive his group besides the Wingulls and Starlys eyeballing them from atop the unmanned boats moored to the docks.

 _Good_ , Gio thought to himself. _The fewer eyes on us, the better._

Archer swooped to his flank as Gio stepped off the ramp and took his first step on Sinnoh Region turf. "Well? Feel any different?"

"I feel like I'm glad to be off that reeking heap of metal," Gio remarked.

Archer hummed agreeably. "Likewise."

"So, what's our first course of action?"

"Well," Archer sang out, holding up his hand above his eyes. "Agent Zephyr assured me someone from base camp would rendezvous with us and arrange our accommodations. He must be running behind schedule. Either way, we only need to wait a little..."

"Mreeow?" Meowth chirped nervously into Gio's ear while Archer rambled on.

"What is it?" Gio whispered to his Pokémon. The feline raised a paw, and Gio's eyes followed it to a lighthouse standing at the edge of the distant pier. There was a shape in the highest window, a silhouette against the sunlight. Gio tilted his head, squinting hard until he realized it was a figure shrouded in a cloak. And it was staring right at him.

Memphis, his memory whispered? No, not possible. The bounty hunter had perished on Savile Island. Besides, he'd forgone that evil persona after reconciling with Delia, his sister.

So if this wasn't Memphis, who was it?

"Gio?"

Gio whipped his head to Archer, blinking.

"Decided to daydream?" his friend laughed.

"You didn't see that?" Gio croaked.

"See what?"

Gio looked back toward the lighthouse, pointing. "There's someone standing in the…" He trailed off when he saw the window empty. The phantom was gone, leaving him tripping over his tongue. He dropped his hand back to his side. "Uh, nothing. Forget it."

Archer's gaze lingered in the given direction a moment longer, then slid back to Gio. "Trick of the sun?"

"Yeah, probably," Gio muttered, pushing the thought away. It had looked too real to be a mirage, whatever he saw, but he didn't need another lecture in calming his nerves right now. He'd promised Archer a clear head and his undivided focus.

"Oh, wonderful," Archer muttered listlessly. "It's _him_."

Gio followed his gaze to a large man in Rocket duds thudding down the docks. He was built like a tank, and at the pace he was moving, Gio thought he'd run through him and Archer like bowling pins. His staggering height and massive shoulders offset his smooth, boyish features and more than filled out his uniform. Even the cap sitting atop his thick, bleach blonde head of hair looked three sizes too small.

Archer cradled his own forehead, sighing, "They really couldn't send anyone else?"

Gio side-glanced Archer. "Why? Who is—?"

The newcomer didn't let him finish the question before snapping to a halt in front of them, and answered in a deep, booming voice, "Field Officer Rufus reporting for duty, Agent Apollo!"

Archer nodded, smiling tighter than Gio had ever seen him. "Yes, Rufus, always a pleasure," he greeted in a strained voice.

Catching his breath at the end of his encore, Rufus smiled back and saluted his superior. "I paid off the harbor chief and wharf workers like you requested. That ought'a keep their mouths closed and their eyes elsewhere while we move our goods."

"Yes, fine work," Archer commended.

"Oh, and Agent Zephyr sends his regards," the giant of a man jabbered on. "I know you haven't been in touch with headquarters since you disembarked. Must have been a tiring trip, right? I think I heard something about a Gyarados incident? Were you involved with that? Are they as mean as they say on the airwaves? How big are they in person? Did you get away in one piece? Oh, of course you did, what am I saying? Did you manage to catch any of them, or did you—"

"Yes, yes, we captured them," Archer interrupted at the first opportunity, then motioned to Gio, eager to pass off the conversation. "This is Giovanni Sakaki. He'll be taking lead on this mission. Madame Boss hand-picked him personally."

Rufus blinked down at Gio with his round, blue eyes. "Giovanni…" After a moment, something clicked, because his bushy brows shot up and his jaw fell open. "Wait! Then that would make you—"

Archer held up a finger. "Yes, but try and be discreet about it."

The officer gave a string of quick nods. "Roger that. Not a problem." He leaned in toward Gio, engulfing him in his massive shadow. "Don't suppose I could get your autograph though? What do you say, pal?"

Gio winced. "Get my _what_?"

Rufus craned his bulging neck to one side, searching behind Gio. "Did you happen to bring your Kangaskhan with you? Or your Machoke?"

"Uh, no," Gio started to answer, before being cut off again. Rufus now had his face right up to Meowth's, and the feline looked rightly petrified under his scrutiny.

"This is your Meowth, right?" Once again, he didn't wait for a reply. "Bold of you not evolving it yet! But of course, if anyone could overcome odds with unevolved Pokémon, it's you, big man! Speaking of which, is it true you took down the whole Rocket Empire? Were you on Savile Island when it blew up?"

"Look, I—"

Rufus held up his enormous hands. "Right, right, not in public. We'll talk later."

Gio felt like a Magikarp as his mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Since when had he gained celebrity status among Team Rocket? He hadn't noticed how hot his cheeks were burning until he heard Petrel and Proto snickering off to the side. He shut them up with his usual glare, then collected himself. By that point, Rufus had stepped away to call in some wheels over his radio.

Rocco, having finally come down from the ship, assumed a spot between Gio and Archer. He must have overheard Rufus' hero worship because even he couldn't wipe the pompous grin splitting his freckled face. "An' here I thooght Archer was a pain in th' ass," he mumbled to Gio, his hangover slurring his speech. "Gie a load a' this one."

"You'll have to forgive him," Archer apologized. "He's... easily star-struck."

Gio grimaced. "No kidding."

It only took a minute or so for the pickup truck to roll up to the harbor. Gio counted sixteen wheels and a box more than spacious enough to store their bikes and equipment, at least until they established a command post. Rocket grunts belonging to Rufus's unit poured out from the back and raced down the docks to join up with Archer's men and collect the cargo.

Gio worried his lip; whatever semblance of subtlety they'd all maintained until now was quickly melting away at the sight of so many uniforms overrunning the shipyard. "Isn't it risky to wear your insignia so openly?" he asked.

Archer calmly waved off the concern. "Not especially. Team Rocket has no branch in Sinnoh. Doubtful anyone here knows who we are."

"Knows who _you_ are," Gio corrected brusquely.

His friend paused. "Right."

They followed the grunts off the docks in silence, up to the main harbor grounds, and from there oversaw the loading procedures to ensure every last item on the manifest made it onto the truck. Gio felt a twinge in his chest when the crate holding his motorcycle was finally hauled away before his eyes. He knew of the storage unit across town it would be taken to, but still wasn't keen on handing his baby off to strangers, much less strangers from Team Rocket.

Like clockwork and without any special attention from the locals, the grunts finished stowing both the equipment and themselves into the truck before peeling off. They'd disappeared into the city as quickly and quietly as they'd arrived, once more leaving Gio and his gang in Archer and Rufus's care.

"Diamond Dust won't stray far," Archer assured Gio, picking up on his unease. "Trust me on that."

"I trust _you_ ," Gio replied, enunciating the last word, and letting the implication from that hang. Archer just frowned, sighed, then set the pace alongside Rufus as they ushered Gio's group out of the shipyards and into the city. Gio didn't question the lack of transportation on their end. The people of Sunyshore weren't exactly showing an interest in their presence anyhow, thank the Legendaries, and he supposed this way they could take their time learning the city's ins and outs instead of acting like they had something to hide. Still, waltzing around town with Rockets in broad daylight had him feeling a little insecure, exposed even.

"I booked you and your unit several rooms at the Sunyshore Hotel," Rufus informed Gio as they walked. "Of course, had I known it was _you_ that was coming, I would have reserved a much nicer suite—"

Gio shook his head. "Not necessary. We don't want to bring attention to ourselves."

"No one asked questions, did they?" Archer asked Rufus.

"Nope," confirmed the field officer. "In fact, someone must really be fond of us. The rooms were already paid for."

Gio wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.

"Unusual," Archer hummed. "Perhaps our arrival wasn't so unnoticed after all."

"Could be our mystery client," Proto suggested from the rear.

Archer nodded. "Well, he _is_ expecting us, so it's possible."

"Hey, at least we know he's friendly," Petrel pointed out. "Maybe financing this whole thing is sort of his… goodwill gesture? You know, like a peace offering?"

"Peace offering," Gio considered, if only for a beat. "Or a power move." He beamed over his shoulder at his usually chatty business partner; it wasn't like her to be so uninvolved. "What do you think, Ariana?"

She must not have heard him. Her face was tilted down, eyes at her feet.

"Ari?"

"Hmm?" She jerked her head up as if coming out of a spell. When she noticed everyone staring, she cleared her throat. "Oh, uh, yes. Absolutely."

"What, is Little Miss Shopaholic having withdrawals?" Petrel teased her, which earned him a slap across the face.

"Anyhow," Archer course-corrected, "better we not assume the worst of our client and hurt our own morale."

Though it had been spoken to all, Gio sensed the comment had been made at him. "All I know is he'd better drop this cloak-and-dagger bullshit if he's as serious as he claims." His voice had slipped into a huskiness he hadn't intended, but it made his meaning clear. "I didn't come all this way to be the butt end of a joke."

* * *

Marco busied himself with adjusting the _Frost Blight's_ sails for better speed, losing himself in the familiar comfort of it. He checked that all the ropes were untangled and the knots secure, everything hooked up just the way it should have been. He didn't mind baking in the sun so long as there was a breeze to keep him cool, and he figured Drucilla might lower her guard if he made himself look useful. He didn't want her sniffing out any trouble anyway. He'd already stretched her mercy to its limit, and was treading on thin ice now. One whiff of mutiny, and he and Tucker would be feeding the Sharpedos.

Jynx stood tall on the quarter-deck, guiding the boat. The Pokémon was too absorbed in concentrating to pay Marco any mind, and he decided to use the lack of surveillance to do a little harmless recon. The chance wasn't likely to come again before nightfall, and he needed to locate his effects before he and Tucker could move forward with their escape plan. The kid was waiting on him even now.

First he had to make sure Drucilla was otherwise indisposed.

Finishing with the sails, he walked the crossbeam back to the mast and slid down effortlessly. He moved in no hurry as he crossed into Jynx's range of vision, casually stretching aching arm muscles as if to retire to his quarters. Once he was sure the Pokémon wouldn't stir, he slipped the rest of the way on tiptoe.

He clambered up to the weather deck, following the hiss of radio static until he found himself outside of the navigation room. The door was ajar, groaning on loose hinges as the wind gently pushed and pulled its weight. He peeked through the gap. The pirate queen sat inside, just across the map table, her back to the door and her boots kicked up on the workbench in front of her. Whatever she was doing had had her holed up in there for hours. Usually her perch was on the crow's nest where nothing could escape her eye, and if he was a touch bolder, he might have taken this golden chance to search her empty cabin.

But if past experience was anything to go by, the quickest solution was rarely the safest. And he _needed_ to play things safe, keep a cool head, especially while onboard a ship captained by a neurotic warmonger. He remembered her having an icy temperament when first they clashed, but life at sea had drowned much of her sanity since those days. He'd heard all the horror stories traveling the underworld. Even looking at her funny could cost him a finger or toe. Or earn him a scar under his left eye to match the right. Hell, it was a miracle she'd let him and Tucker off with just a few bruises back in Vermilion.

That he was even on the _Frost Blight_ again was crazy in itself, the more he thought on it. Once, he'd vowed never to get tangled up with pirates again, but apparently he'd bamboozled even himself with that one. He wondered if he still would have taken all the risks he had up till now if not for love and loyalty. If he failed his mission, Sorhagen would die by Rue's hand, and a part of Giuseppe would die with him. His best friend would lose himself much as Drucilla had. The underworld would collapse into war and chaos.

Funny. If it really was fear that had pushed Marco to these extremes, then what else was he willing to risk for the bigger picture? And did that fear of losing Giuseppe outweigh his fear of dying to Drucilla, he wondered?

He was about to find out.

He knocked twice on the swinging wooden frame, and though Drucilla didn't react, she'd definitely heard him. She'd likely been aware of him lurking this whole time, in fact. He didn't let that trip him up though, and entered the room with all the pluck Tucker might have summoned. When still she said nothing, he cleared his throat.

"Marco," she acknowledged flatly, her back still facing him. "If you're bored, I can put you to work. The lower deck could use a good scrubbing."

He played it off with snark. "Me? Bored?"

At last, she spun to him, set down the device in her hand and leaned over the map table. She steepled her fingers, smirking. "Then let me guess. You've come to ask for your Pokémon back?"

"Not until we make land," he reminded her. "That was the deal, right?"

"How honorable," she snorted.

"Although," he said, stitching together a lie on the spot, "you should know my Kadabra sometimes likes to let itself out of its Pokéball. You may want to have Nintales or Jynx watch over your quarters."

"Honorable _and_ courteous," she sniffed, unimpressed. "Neither suits you."

He shrugged. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he mumbled, and left it at that, pretending to forget all about it. From the way her face was scrunching up, she certainly wasn't though. He'd planted the seed in her mind, and just had to wait now.

And it wasn't a long wait.

"Your Pokémon would need a wide berth to escape their Pokéballs," she snarled, straightening in her chair. "And I can assure you, I have that covered."

"If you say so," he muttered quietly, looking back down at the charts. Little remarks like that were perfect for getting under her skin without being obvious about it, and from the corner of his eye, she was indeed a fidgeting mess. Then, right on cue, her chair creaked as she swiveled halfway, her boot nudging what looked like a chest underneath the wood console, no larger than a wine jug.

"See for yourself," she growled.

His lips twitched in a smile. Bingo.

She twirled back around, and he smothered his grin before she could spot it. She pushed her hair back behind her shoulders and reached into the front of her blouse, holding out a necklace. A key dangled from the lace. "Without _this_ , nothing can get out of the chest," she sneered. "Or _in_."

He read between the lines easily enough. "I'll behave," he promised.

Her glare didn't soften. "You had better," she warned, chin high, "if you ever hope to see land again. Don't tempt me to send you or that wretched boy to a watery grave."

Keeping his wits about him, Marco bent over the chart table, eager to shift topics. He traced a finger over the paper nautical map spread out between them. "Speaking of land, where exactly in Sinnoh _are_ we making port?"

"Canalave City," she supplied, but not before smacking his hand away. She waited for his arms to drop back to his sides before continuing. "From there, the child will lead us to Giovanni. That is assuming, of course, everything you've told me about him is true."

He nodded. "Like I said back in Vermilion, as long as we keep him in the dark, he'll play ball."

"He has a lot of spunk, that one," she muttered. He knew where her head was at. She was still playing over that last exchange with Tucker in her mind.

"Yeah, about what he said earlier," he chuckled, hoping to make light of the circumstances, "don't take it personally. Just self-righteous pride."

She leaned back, but her scowl remained. "Yes. The curse of all Pokémon Trainers. An admirable trait in his mind, an exploitable one in others."

That took him by surprise, and he quirked a brow. "So you trust him then?"

" _Him_? Yes."

"But not _me_."

She said nothing to that directly. "You didn't mention he was the spawn of Samuel Oak."

"Hey, that was news to me too," he said, throwing up his palms defensively. "But so what? I thought it was Giovanni you were after."

Something flickered over her face, but she shut it down and clenched her jaw. She was definitely hiding something from him, but he cared too much for his own neck right now to try and suss it out of her.

She snatched up her radio again, spun back to her workspace. She fiddled with the antenna and that same buzzing filled his ears once more. Eventually she set it down on the benchtop, letting it play as she busied her hands with a long strip of black cloth. Judging from the scattered sewing tools in her reach, she must have been fashioning a uniform of some kind. His gaze lingered on the radio though.

"Scanner?" he asked.

She laughed, condescending. "Obviously. Do you think anything of importance happens on these waters without my knowledge? One needs to stay ahead of the competition. You of all people should appreciate that."

Then a voice pushed through the static.

"Distress signal… Gyarados attack… requesting naval support..."

Marco frowned. "Should I be worried?"

She shook her head. "Hardly. It's an old broadcast, one of several I missed while otherwise occupied, yet recorded nonetheless."

The old distress call continued. "Gyarados... huge... engaged us! We're under attack!"

A deeper, slightly less muffled voice responded. "Affirmative. Waiting for coordinates to be passed over."

A full minute of static hiss passed before a reply came, much calmer than before. "Negative. Military Government involvement is no longer necessary. Threat has been neutralized. Situation under control. Bulk carrier is safe. Repeat, bulk carrier is safe."

"Carrier registration number?" the naval officer asked.

"11045. A cargo vessel belonging to one 'Lucky Karps. Inc.' Scheduled to dock and unload cargo at the Sunyshore Harbor."

"Damages sustained?"

"Minimal. Continuing charted course."

"Acknowledged."

"Sunyshore," Marco mouthed under his breath. His smile widened, digging dimples into his cheeks. Unlike Drucilla, he knew Team Rocket had stowed away on a Lucky Karps ship, thanks to Keefer's intel. It was all coming together. And now he knew exactly where in Sinnoh to begin his quest. Best of all, Drucilla was without a clue. The information she'd been so desperate for had just passed over her ears, and she didn't even realize.

"How old is this broadcast?" he asked casually.

"A day," she intoned, concentrating on her work. "Those Gyarados are long gone, so stow your nerves."

He would have been happy to shut up, but he had to make sure she was truly oblivious to his discovery. "You don't maybe wanna, I don't know, check out those coordinates and snatch up those Gyarados for yourself?"

Irritated, she twisted in her chair to face him. "There's no chance a prize like that hasn't already been claimed. You're a fool if you think I'm the only pirate with a scanner."

"Fair enough."

"Why are you even still here?" she snapped at him, and he stepped back a safe distance.

"No reason. I just thought—"

"You thought that by cozying up to me, I'd lower my guard?"

"You're right, I'm sorry. No more talking." He could feel her studying him, trying to figure him out, and he shifted uncomfortably toward the door. "I'm, uh, gonna go check in on Tucker. Let you cool down a bit."

"Marco."

He stopped at his name, looked over his shoulder at her.

"Don't let me catch you snooping around here again." Her voice carried an unspoken threat, one that probably involved walking the plank with his hands bound behind him.

"Got it." He smiled and nodded, walking out as fast as he could without seeming like he was fleeing. Which he wasn't. Probably.

He climbed back down to the main deck and slouched against the mast, letting go of the breath he'd been holding as he did. He raked a hand through his greasy hair. Hopefully things would smooth out from here. Either way, he'd gotten what he went in there for. Of course he'd never expected to walk away with his Pokémon; that was never the goal of chatting up Drucilla. He'd just needed to know where she was keeping them.

And if that wasn't enough reward for risking his skin, now he also knew where Giovanni was anchoring before Drucilla and Tucker did. He could begin his surveillance of Team Rocket sooner than expected and finally bring Giuseppe up to speed. Just needed a little more time to get off this cursed ship and drop the dead weight, and he'd be back in the game.

* * *

Getting around on foot wasn't an unfamiliar sensation for Gio, but he wondered how much more distance before Petrel or Proto turned to puddles on the sidewalk. He glanced over his shoulder to take stock of them, and sure enough, they were already dragging their feet in protest. They were bikers by nature, and only ever used their feet on the go for peg planting and pedal stomping. He'd rarely ever assigned them work they couldn't handle from the comfort of their wheels.

Rocco, on the other hand, seemed unfazed by the workout; of course, most things in general never bothered him. The Scot was only in this for the pay, and wasn't one to complain so long as that simple pleasure wasn't compromised. Besides, before joining Team Righteous, he'd spent most of his life thieving and picking fights, and then chased by the law or other thugs for thieving and picking fights. What was a simple walk through the city to this tough, desensitized bastard?

Then there was Ariana, who, for some reason, was unusually quiet. In fact, she hadn't said much of anything since docking. He'd never seen her so distant, untalkative. Maybe she was having the same reservations about this land as he was. Maybe _her_ gut, too, was telling her something.

He centered his gaze again, choosing not to dwell on uncertainties and instead focus on what was clear in front of him. Fortunately, Rufus seemed to know his way around town as he led them through the commercial district. He was yapping up a storm much as a tour guide might, but Gio took it upon himself to eat in the sights. The buildings stood only so tall here, but maybe that was just the mountains and cliffs in the backdrop putting everything smaller to shame. On the upside, it gave the city a smaller, cozier feel he knew Delia would appreciate. There were even trees and hills peeking between some structures, and he wondered if all of Sinnoh's towns were so plugged in to the natural landscape.

There was also a noticeable lack of automobiles crowding the streets. He probably couldn't have found a taxi even if he'd wanted one. From the look of it, the populace, small as it was compared to Kanto's big cities, was committed to getting around the old fashion way. He was liable to mistake any one of the civilians as Trainers for this reason, and that would likely complicate his gang's job here, assuming poaching was indeed on their mystery client's agenda. He'd have to bring that to Archer's attention later.

His mind still tripped over the same damn question though: why did everything about this land feel so wholesome, look so refined, seem so… dreamlike? Where were the thugs in the alleys? The pirates in the harbor? The police in the streets? Kanto and Johto had fallen on hard times after the economic collapse, and much of its infrastructure still suffered for it, even with the Military Government to mop up.

But not Sinnoh, somehow. There was no Torino or Rocket Empire offshoot here to sow havoc, nor was there any military force to police the streets and stamp out those seeds. There was peace here, a sense of quiet, purity even Pallet Town couldn't match. From the people and Pokémon smiling past him, to the harmony of the waves and the brine-scented wind, the soft warmth of the sun and the majestic glow of the trees and mountains. He truly felt like an outsider here, unworthy; and maybe that was the pit in his stomach that wouldn't go away.

Maybe _he_ was the knot in the current.

"Welcome to the future!"

Gio turned, and realized he'd walked by an appliance shop window displaying a wall of television sets. He might have ignored it and been on his way, but a small crowd of all ages and sizes was gathering outside the display. Some teenagers running toward the beach with their surfboards stopped suddenly at the man's voice, and joined the clutter; an elderly couple and their Luxio were drawn in next, followed then by a group of office workers on lunch. Gio traded wary glances with Meowth, then turned to look up the road; Archer and the others hadn't gotten far, too caught up in Rufus's show about to notice his absence.

"Life is good," the peppy voice on the televisions rang out, reeling him back around. "But with Titian Energy, it _can_ be better!"

 _Titian_ , Gio mentally parroted; he had seen that name plastered on walls, benches, and buildings all over the city.

Instantly, he moved into the crowd, his height advantage over the onlookers affording him a clear view of the window display. He flinched when he saw the man on the tube, immediately struck by his beauty, odd as that sounded. But he couldn't think of any other word. Rose pink hair, slicked back and almost blinding. Bright, piercing brown eyes. Strong cheekbones. Sharp jawline. Flawless skin. Pressed suit. He was cut from extravagant cloth, clearly, and took pride in his appearance.

"Thanks to Titian Technologies, the impossible is now possible!" the charismatic talking head preached to his audience. "Come take this journey with me as we make our mark on history! Seize the moment now! Innovate! Instigate! Prosper!"

Aerial footage of Sinnoh's landmarks reeled across the screen, cutting to shots of skyscrapers and industrial plants and simpering laborers all wearing the conglomerate name. Subliminal marketing at its finest, and these folks were eating it up. Gio scoffed, and began to walk away from the poorly disguised sucker fest.

"You!"

Gio halted.

"That's right, I'm speaking to you, friend!"

He spun. The man was on the screen again.

"Here at Titian Technologies, it's not just about putting money back in your pockets," he said, folding his hands together. "And so I ask you, does your world feel like one incomprehensible puzzle? Are the pieces not fitting no matter how hard you try to make them?"

Gio swallowed against a dry throat, and started taking baby steps back toward the store window. He knew this bigshot wasn't calling him out specifically, but hearing those familiar questions outside of his own head tugged at something in his chest.

"What if I told you there is no puzzle?" the man challenged, locking eyes with Gio no matter which screen his gaze jumped to. "It's an illusion. If you imagine the power to manage your life is out of your hands, then you've already lost. Don't let your mind be a self-made prison! Nothing is out of reach! If you see something you want, seize it!"

Gio startled as members of the crowd clapped, cheered, and fist-pumped the air. Whoever this person was, he had touched something inside them, too.

"Do you want to have control of your life? You have that power!"

More applause.

"You just have to learn how to use it! You can make up all the excuses you want. You're too tired. Too old. Too fat. Too stupid. Too unworthy. Too lost. I've heard them all. But if you want something… seize it!"

Gio bit down on his lip. Was it really as simple as that? Everyone around him sure seemed convinced.

"You want that job promotion?" the man asked.

"Seize it!" everyone chanted.

"You want that nice house on the beach?"

"Seize it!"

"You want that normal life you think you're unworthy of?"

"Yes," Gio's mouth twitched.

"Seize the moment!" the man exclaimed, his upbeat voice competing with his infectious smile. Prerecorded or not, the way he was serenading his listeners, waving his hands about and commanding such positive energy, he may as well have been there in the flesh.

"The world does not put limitations on what you can have," he preached, pointing at Gio. "Only _you_ do! We are our own worst enemy, make no mistake about it. But with a few simple steps, I can teach you how to take control of your life. Titian Technologies isn't just a business, it's a service, a family, a friend, a life coach, a mentor, an opportunity, a way of life! Heck, it's whatever you want it to be! I share the new and improved Sinnoh Region with _all_ of you, the people, for the sole betterment of your own well-being. All you have to do is reach out, and—"

"Seize it!" the crowd shouted over him. It went on like this for some time, back and forth. Gio must have spaced out. He didn't know how much time had passed until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. Archer was standing there, questions on his brow that Gio didn't quite know how to answer.

"Decided to wander off?"

"No, I just…" Gio looked into the store window. The commercial had ended, replaced by some other program, and the crowd was dispersing. "Just... felt like watching some television, I guess. Right, Meowth?"

"Meeoww," the Pokémon vouched from Gio's shoulder.

Archer smiled wryly. "Did you now? Well, let's get settled at the hotel. It's not much further."

"Right." Gio followed him back to the others waiting at the street corner up ahead. He could already spot the hotel in the distance, not that it was easy to miss. It was tall, perhaps the tallest building in town. Made sense. Coastal cities were automatic tourist hubs—despite that this place wasn't exactly buzzing.

"You guys go on ahead, I'll catch up," Ari said without warning.

Archer sighed at her. "Not you too."

"I'll be fine, I know my way around." She dumped her luggage on Rufus and took a left at the corner, not even sparing them a glance. If Gio hadn't been sure something was eating at her before, he was certain now.

"Where is she off to in such a hurry?" Archer puzzled.

Proto yawned, unconcerned. "All she talked about on the way over was finding new shoes. Take a wild guess."

Petrel snapped to Gio's side. "Permission to give chase, bossman?" he asked, the mischievous gleam in his eye unmistakable. "You know, just to make sure she doesn't stray from the mission and all?"

Gio inhaled, then exhaled. "Fine."

Like a giddy child, Petrel sprinted off in the direction Ariana went. When Gio turned forward, it was Rocco standing before him now. He sighed.

"And let me guess: _you_ want to go find the nearest bar?"

The Scot gave a two-finger salute. "Aye, ye can reid me like a book."

"Did you have to say 'book'?" Proto groaned; his destroyed literature was still a sore spot.

Rocco laughed, clapping the boy's back. "Still feelin' doun aboot tha', ere ye? Nothin' a few pints in ye canae wash away!"

Proto shrugged. "Fine, but they're gonna want to card me," he warned.

Rocco waggled his brows. "Nae ef th' bartender is a lady bartender. Then ye can watch meh wark th' aul charm."

"And if it's a guy?"

"Ah'v warked miracles before," Rocco accepted the challenge. He and Proto together slid their gazes to Gio, waiting for his say-so.

Gio looked to Archer, passing judgement off to him. The Rocket agent rubbed his chin in pensive strokes.

"I suppose we do have time to spare until tomorrow's meetup," he decided after a moment's consideration. "And it couldn't hurt to better acquaint ourselves with our surroundings."

Rocco playfully punched Proto's arm, triumphant, and the two started back the way they came.

"Keep Proto close," Gio called to Rocco.

"As if I need a babysitter," the boy huffed petulantly.

"Nae, ay coorse nae," Rocco cackled, throwing his arm around Proto. "Ahm passin' ye aff as mah adopted wee brother who ah raised aw by mah lonesome. Th' lasses ere sure tae eat 'at up."

Part of Gio wanted to join them, drink his troubles away, but he pushed down the thought before it could manifest. Archer and Rufus set the pace onward again, hashing out mission logistics as they did so. He listened in from behind in an effort to show interest, but they hardly seemed to notice.

"If all goes smoothly, and this client decides to hire our services, we can't very well work out of hotels and storage garages," Archer pointed out.

"Way ahead of you, sir!" Rufus affirmed. "As we speak, I have units fanning out across the city in search of a more permanent base of operations."

The two of them went on at some length, talking among themselves. Gio might as well have been a third wheel. He was in charge of this operation, but felt like a saltwater Tentacool in a big city pond. He wasn't familiar with Team Rocket protocol and procedures any more than he was familiar with this foreign land he was expected to work in, and frankly, he didn't want to be. At least his gang was settling in, if nothing else, making the most of their adjustment by distracting themselves from it.

As they passed through the city square, the local community center stuck out to Gio, and he hung back a moment. What caught his eye wasn't the building itself though. Missing child flyers clung to its walls, each picture of a different boy or girl. Turning his head to the Pokémon Center, he noticed similar posters hanging in the windows. And another on a nearby phone booth.

"Meeerow," Meowth squealed nervously.

Gio nodded. Apparently there were some cracks in this perfect town after all, and it called forth the memory of the strange figure he'd seen in the lighthouse.

"Dangerous to hike in this region," a thunderous voice remarked, and Gio jumped at the sound before realizing it was only Rufus. The larger man was sharing his view of the flyers. "Easy to get lost in Sinnoh's mountains and valleys without a Pokémon, you know? And I guess a lot of kids just itching for adventure don't have any Pokémon yet."

Gio said nothing. The reasoning was plausible, but something about this still wasn't sitting right with him. A missing child wasn't something to shrug at in his home region. Then again, the sort of everyday Pokémon theft sweeping through Kanto lately was unheard of here, so maybe crime was predicated on province.

"Rough luck," was Rufus's last thought on the matter before lumbering off. Gio was about to join him until the screech of tires rang across the square. The noise that followed he easily recognized as the purr of a motorcycle engine, and he quickly stepped out of the street and onto the sidewalk as the rider tore around the corner and zipped past him.

Who the hell?

The asshole casually pulled up to the Pokémon Center, leaving Gio and Moewth coughing on his fumes, as if it wasn't enough he'd nearly made roadkill out of them. Gio furiously swatted away the haze and rolled up his sleeves, not interested in getting blood on his jacket once he broke the asshole's nose. He was half tempted to have Meowth slash his tires, too, but he knew a good bike couldn't be faulted for its negligent owner.

Then the rider removed his helmet. Or rather, _her_ helmet.

Gio froze in his tracks.

She held the helmet under her arms and shook out her hair, long red waves falling over her shoulders. She was young, his age, if not a year shy. And pretty. Objectively, of course. Her skin glistened in the sun, porcelain white that clashed with the black of her outfit. He never would have imagined someone that looked so fragile and petite could handle a motorcycle so monstrous. And no mistake, it was a top-of-the-line model, fast and bulky and built for dangerous terrain. It might have even given Diamond Dust a run for its money.

She activated the kickstand with her boot, and hopped off the seat, heading toward the Pokémon Center. Gio watched carefully as she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a flyer of her own. The face of a young girl was sketched on it, not photographed, curiously. No way was it her daughter; this woman was too young to be a mother. A sister, maybe?

She pulled a wad of gum from her mouth and pressed it to the window, then flattened the flyer on top. Job complete, she turned back toward her ride, and when the flaps of her jacket blew open, he spotted a Pokéball on her belt. She was a Trainer, too, then. It might not have been such a one-sided brawl after all, if he hadn't restrained himself.

When he lifted his eyes back up, hers were waiting. He flinched, a Stantler in headlights. Had she caught him staring at her waist? No, no, it hadn't been like that! Legendaries, now she probably thought he was some leering creep, or a pervert, or even a stalker.

Whatever her impression of him, she smirked, just faintly. His brain stuttered to process the action, but she shoved her helmet back on, hopped on her bike, and fired up the engines. Then as mysteriously as she'd appeared, she was gone.

"Gio?" Archer's voice roused him. "What happened? Are you hurt?" It took a second for Gio to notice his friend's hand on his arm, steadying him. Gio's voice had disappeared somewhere in his throat, so he just shook his head at the questions. Archer's gaze shifted to the fume cloud Gio's assailant had left behind. "I guess there's always one bad egg in every community," he deduced.

"I should have acted sooner!" Rufus despaired, raking his hands over his head and taking thick, platinum hair by the fistfuls. "I would'a pulled you out of the street myself, Gio, if I had seen her coming! I'm so sorry, big guy! Don't you worry, I'll track her down and—"

"No, Rufus, it's alright," he said, clearing his voice of any cracks and croaks. "It was… probably just an accident."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, don't get worked up." He patted the man's arm for safe measure, hoping that extra reassurance might shut him up.

The Rocket gawked at the spot his idol's hand had touched, a gasp leaving him. "I... am never… washing this uniform again."

"Well, if there are no further distractions," Archer cut in, indicating the hotel by chin. "Shall we?"

Rufus snapped out of his daze, scooped up the luggage he'd dropped, and led the march again. Gio followed this time, but his mind still hadn't fully caught up to the moment. That rider…

"She was cute."

Gio's eyes flicked up to Archer's as soon as the words registered, a flash of surprise before he folded it out of view. "I guess. What about it?"

His friend shrugged, smiling coyly at him. "Just an observation."

* * *

Tucker sat cross-legged and twiddling his thumbs at the edge of his bed. He was getting antsy. Marco had told him to turn in early while he made the escape arrangements, but that had been hours ago and the sunlight coming through the porthole was now a dying ember. He didn't like just sitting around and waiting. He wanted to be useful.

He peeked over the bedside to check on Cubone. The Pokémon was snoozing soundly on the floor after having rolled off the bed in a tangle of sheets. He didn't care to wake him; the little guy would need his energy later. Instead, he gingerly reached past him to grab his suitcase by the strap and pull it toward the bunk. He plopped the bag on the bed, stuffed his hand into the outside pocket.

He fished out a photograph; the one of him, his mom, and his dad. It had gotten wrinkled in the commotion back in Vermilion, and he regretted not leaving it in the frame like his dad had scolded at him to. _The frame hogs up space_ , he had said in his defense.

He frowned at the picture, wishing he'd left it on the windowsill in his room. He wouldn't have packed it had he known at the time where he'd end up. The choice to not go to Pokémon Tech had been spur-of-the-moment. And of course, now with his nightmares getting worse and worse, more and more vivid every night, it just stung having to look at her. More so than usual.

The sound of rapping on the door had Tucker almost falling out of his bunk. He staggered towards the sound, stubbing his toe Cubone's club as he reached for the handle. He yanked open the door to find Marco in the corridor. "Finally!" he yelped.

"Shhh!" Marco whispered, holding up a finger. He tiptoed past Tucker and shut the door behind them. Tucker nearly took it as permission to talk normally again until he remembered Cubone asleep.

"Well?" he asked quietly, anxious for updates. "Did you scope out her quarters?"

Marco exhaled. "Didn't need to. They're in the navigation room up on the weather deck."

"Your Pokémon."

"Yup."

"You're positive?"

Marco nodded. "She has them locked up in a chest. You'll have to wait until after dark to get them."

"That shouldn't be much long—" Tucker stopped himself, Marco's words clicking a bit late. "Wait, me? Why me?"

"Because she doesn't trust me," Marco huffed in frustration. "She'll have my cabin watched closely tonight, probably by her Pokémon. But she won't see _you_ coming."

Tucker pushed up his brow. "Uh, why?"

"Because she thinks you're just some kid without a clue," Marco said. A frown pulled at Tucker's lips until the older planted a reassuring hand on shoulder. "But you're not. You're way more than that. Right?"

"Yeah," Tucker said, realizing, nodding. "Yeah, I am!"

"Can you be sneaky?" Marco whispered.

Tucker smirked, and waved at the question that didn't need to be asked. "Are you kidding? I used to sneak out of my house all the time to visit Gio, and my pop is the lightest sleeper ever!"

Nodding, Marco reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a pick lock. He yanked the boy's hand toward him, putting the pick in his palm. "Take this. It should crack open the chest."

Tucker hesisted to close his fist around it. "One problem," he said. "Fat chance the door to that room won't be locked tonight."

Marco pointed past Tucker's shoulder by way of answering. The blonde twisted around, following Marco's finger to the small, metal ventilation shaft snaking down the corner wall and ending as a horn-shaped valve. Of course. On a boat, air vents had no way to go but up.

"But," he said, an overlooked detail sticking out to him, "I can't fit in that."

"You won't have to."

That's when it dawned on Tucker. "Cubone."

"You send him through the vent..." Marco began.

Tucker was already a step ahead of him. "Then he can unlatch the door from the other side!"

"Bingo," Marco smirked. "He gets you in, you nab my Pokéballs, Kadabra teleports us all the hell away from this ship. Boom, bam, done."

"And then we use Starmie to get us the rest of the way to Sinnoh," Tucker easily concluded, a smile coming to his own face.

A nod from Marco. "By the time Drucilla realizes we're gone, we'll be out of reach and she'll be chasing after an empty dinghy."

"A decoy," Tucker understood, remembering back to Marco and Cubone's bonding session. "That was why you were practicing your reef knots earlier."

"And why I made sure Drucilla saw me doing it," Marco tacked on, his voice sounding impressed with himself; Tucker couldn't really blame him. "If she _is_ expecting us to escape, it'll be by rowboat. I'll fill it with dummy weight and cut it loose before we split."

The blonde laughed. "You really left nothing to chance, huh?"

Marco tapped on his own forehead. "Survivalist, remember? Maybe I'll write you up a handbook for your Sinnoh journey."

Tucker craned his head at him, a little insulted. "What do you mean? I'm plenty smart."

"Book smart," the older boy muttered from the corner of his mouth.

"I've got more than just book smarts," Tucker shot back at him, crossing his arms.

"Oh! Right. Your 'special powers'," Marco teased him.

Tucker groaned. "It's not a power, you hoser! It's more like... a feeling. An instinct."

"Yeah?" he replied, a mocking question. "Well, maybe let your 'instinct' take a backseat on this one. You and your Pokémon just follow my plan to the letter and we'll all be home free."

"Kew?"

Tucker pivoted. His Pokémon stood there blinking up at them.

"Guess you heard all that then," Marco huffed at the creature. "Then we don't need to bring you up to speed, right?"

"Kew…"

Tucker dropped to a crouch; he didn't want to force the little guy to do anything he wasn't comfortable with. "What do you think, Cubone? Can we pull it off?"

Taking more kindly to Tucker's approach, Cubone raised his club high to give his answer. "Kew! Kew!"

Tucker high-fived his Pokémon. "Great! Let's do this!"

"That's we're all on the same page," Marco declared, bringing Tucker to his feet again. "No turning back now."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Tucker laughed, stuffing the lockpick in his pocket to clinch the deal.

Marco nodded. "We should get some rest," he decided, turning to leave. "Get at least a few hours of sleep, would you?"

"Hey, Marco?" Tucker said, voice squeaking a little.

Marco turned a glance to him. "Don't tell me I need to tuck you in."

"What? No way! I just—" He scratched behind his head, racking it for the right words. He always got so flustered in times like this. "I just... wanted to say thanks for getting me and Cubone this far."

The older boy looked surprised at first, then something fond played on his face. "Don't thank me just yet," he said, and quickly went on his way.

Tucker latched the door behind him and made his way back to his bunk. He picked up the family photograph he'd left on the mattress, staring at it a bit longer; if things turned south later, this could have been the last time.

Then he gently slid it back into his bag, and crawled into bed beside his Pokémon.

* * *

"Curse this place," Ariana muttered under her breath as her feet carried her through memory lane. Sunyshore's once buzzing industrial district now stretched out before her a low, weathered graveyard for neglected apartment complexes and empty buildings. She'd once called this dump home, among other dumps far and wide. As the daughter of a career woman in her prime, her whole childhood had been one long, tiresome cycle of moving in and out of neighborhoods.

But Sunyshore always stood out from the rest.

Her walkabout ended at a rusted, broken chain link fence edging an abandoned office building. Her stomach knotted when she looked up and beheld the crooked sign above the double doors, faded but still legible. 'Phate and Suffrin & Associates', it read. Some of her earlier memories had been born here. Memories of watching her single mother carry a business, a livelihood, all without a man's help. Well, she'd had a partner once, but he'd been nothing to brag about. His name was on the firm beside hers, but anyone who was anyone knew it was Celia Phate who'd held the practice together.

Ariana grimaced at the deteriorating sign, determined to put it out of its misery. She latched onto the mesh wiring barring her path and tried climbing it, but only got about halfway before the stupid fence tore her skirt and caught her heel. She groaned, untangled herself, and hopped back to the ground. Damn her for not nabbing her Arbok's Pokéball out of her luggage before coming here. Now she looked a fright, and that sign was _still_ taunting her.

That damned sign had to go.

She walked along the fence until it led her behind the firm. There she found a large gap in the lower wiring and slipped underneath. That she was going to these lengths to destroy some aluminum letters hanging over a building was absurd, but what choice did she have? That was _her_ surname, and evidence of a time in her life she didn't need the guys or Team Rocket putting under a microscope. And it was well past time she closed this door anyhow.

She decided to cut through the building, clear out the interior of any other potential bread crumbs. The back doors squealed unsettlingly as she stepped through them, trying to locate the stairwell. The firm was hauntingly derelict, to say the least; empty offices with dusty desks and chairs, and Arceus knew she had seen some creepy locales before. Maybe it was because she'd trotted these floors once as a tiny girl, her mother's hand holding hers tight. She could still hear her plucky voice carrying through the firm.

 _Take a good look, princess,_ she'd said to her so long ago when the future was still so bright. _This is our palace! And one day, you'll wear mommy's crown!_

Ari blinked away the memory before the urge to chuck something across the room could fester. She shook her head around, as if that would dispel the things that had their hooks in her, even now. Joining Team Righteous was supposed to distance herself from her past, from this place, yet here she was, right back in the belly of the beast.

She moved to lean her hand against the wall and gather her emotions, but something in the wall stirred and she jerked away. Reflex saw her hands vigorously wiping themselves on her lap. She didn't know how wild Rattatas transferred diseases or if they even carried them, but she beelined into the next room before she could find out.

"Nice spread."

She jumped about a foot and spun on her heel to find Petrel sitting at a desk near the very back of the room, feet perched in front of him and a smirk on his dumb face. As if the place wasn't already crawling with enough vermin.

"You!" she spat, clutching her pounding chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack! What in the Legendaries are you doing here?"

"Stalking you. I thought that was obvious." His eyes swept over the number the fence had done on her outfit. "Get in a fight with a Sandslash or something?"

A muscle jumped in her clenching jaw. She wondered if she'd developed that familiar tic in the first place because of this buffoon. "Don't change the subject! You _followed_ me here? Don't you have anything better to do than stick your nose in my business?"

He hopped out of the chair and came to her, recoiling dramatically. "Oh, come now. A man would have to be pretty desperate to put his nose anywhere near your… business."

She was so heated his joke sizzled right off her. " _You_?" she barked in ridicule. " _A man_? You are a pathetic excuse for a man, at best!"

"Right back at you," he sniped, circling her like the snake he was. "Now how did you find yourself all the way out here, I wonder?"

"Walk away, Petrel, or my foot is going to find itself all the way up your—"

Paper crinkled under his boot, and he paused, dropping his gaze. He lifted his foot and reached down, picking up an old, crumpled memo. He blew away the dust, revealing the firm's name in fine print. "'Phate & Suffrin and Associates'," he read out loud, brow jumping. "Phate? As in, Celia Phate?" He craned his neck at her, his mouth curling up slowly. "This is your mother's building."

"It _was_ ," she corrected bitingly, snatching the paper out of his hand and shredding it up. "So what?"

He tapped his chin. "So what is it you're hiding, I wonder?"

Her lips tremored, holding back a snarl. "Petrel, I swear..."

"Wait, don't tell me! I can solve this puzzle on my own!" He started pacing laps around her again, making a big show of his Sherlock-like guesswork. "Let's see... you used to constantly rave about your mother being this successful, big-time lawyer, yet her firm is quite visibly in shambles."

Her face burned so hot she thought she might melt; there was a heartbeat in her hands and at the back of her throat. She was battling the fight or flight feeling overtaking her, because she did have _some_ pride left in her.

"Something happened," Petrel concluded, stopping in front of her, his smile inches from her face and about a moment from her fist. "Something you don't like to remember. And _that's_ why you were so against coming to Sinnoh."

She huffed out her nostrils. He had her cornered. "Partly," she grumbled.

A short bark of what might have been laughter. "Really? Well, you might have thought to mention you lived in the very region the rest of us knew nothing about before coming here."

She twisted sharply from him. "I was a child last I was here," she spat at the torn wallpaper, arms folding self-consciously over herself. "I... barely remember those days. We moved around a lot. My mother has a lot of offices in a lot of different cities."

"You mean _had_."

Something in her snapped at his correction, and suddenly she was right in his face, tears burning her eyes. "Yes, _had_ ," she sobbed, as if the pain had been sussed right out of her. He startled back a few paces, but she kept in step until he was flat against the wall. " _Had_! As in, _past_ tense! Her firm went under! Everything we had crumbled around us! She was sent to prison for abetting Briskomy, and I was left to pick up the pieces! _Me_! A teenage girl!"

"Oh." His voice came out in a croak.

"Yeah! _Oh_!" Catching her breath, she stepped back from him, coming down from whatever had just swept her up. The memories still stung her eyes though, and she crumpled to the filthy floor to bury her head in her lap. "I'd never felt so alone, so humiliated," she sniffled.

"So," he dragged the word out, probably to cut the tension. The hoarseness in his throat hurt the effort. "Who else knows about this?"

She considered not saying, but too much was out in the open already that it hardly mattered. "Only Gio," she whispered, bringing her face up from her knees but evading his eyes. "The night I got word about my mother, he found me at our old junkyard hideout bawling my eyes out."

"And so began your amorous pursuit of him." A laugh followed his realization, but it wasn't his usual, mean-spirited chuckle. Regardless, she nodded.

"Yes." The memory of that night—perhaps her only truly decent memory since all this began—drew a big smile to her lips, and she didn't care that Petrel saw. "He sat me down, promised me that everything would be okay. Made me feel safe."

"Stop, please, you're going to make me shed a tear," he mocked, before making a subtle gagging motion. "Or vomit."

She rolled her eyes and swiped away her last tears. Then she heard him approach, and looked up. His hand was stretched toward her. She hesitated a moment, glaring at it distrustfully. When it finally clicked that he was offering to help her up, she swallowed her pride and took his hand, pulling herself to her feet.

The instant their eyes went level again, she froze up under his stare, and he froze under hers. It was a fleeting moment where their gazes just seemed locked together, and for that brief, dreadfully awkward pause, she noticed things she hadn't before. How dark yet soft his eyes were, how impressively high his cheekbones hiked, how frightfully adult the purple fuzz of his chin made him look so up close, how his other hand was touching her shoulder—

She flinched to her senses, and quickly yanked her from of his. His arms flew back to his sides as he nervously danced backwards. "T-There was something on your shoulder but-I got it," he squeaked, rubbing at his neck. "J-Just some dust! You're-yeah. You're good," he said, before coughing into his fist.

"Right," she said, feeling out the word in a way that made his face go red. She cleared her throat, and before silence could come for seconds, she leapt at the chance to change the subject. "Well, you got the truth out of me," she recapped in a gust of breath, "so congratulations. I suppose now you'll celebrate by blabbing my sad, humiliating story to everyone, won't you?"

He ran his hand down his chin, humming. "Well," he sighed, dragging this out, "embarrassing you _does_ always bring a smile to my handsome mug. And as I see it, you _do_ still owe me for saving you from becoming Gyarados grub."

She nodded grudgingly, reading him loud and clear, and crossed her arms in defeat. Of course he was going to tell everyone. Who did she think she was dealing with?

"But then again," he continued the thought, and her head snapped up. His face was twisting up in conflicted knots; any excuse to flex his theater chops. "That would just be too easy, wouldn't it? Like I didn't truly earn it."

She shook her head with a sigh, feeling that tic in her cheek again. "Petrel, for once, just skip the word games and say what you mean."

"I'm saying I won't kick a Rapidash while she's down," he clarified, lifting his head before he seemed to remember himself, and dropped it again. "I'd rather work for my rewards than have them handed to me on a platter."

She glowered at him, not convinced. "When have you ever _worked_ for anything?"

Smirking that fiendish smirk, he walked out of the room without a word, into the front lobby. Once she managed to roll up her jaw, she raced after him.

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

He said nothing as he strolled out the building. She half-expected him to go back on his word and book it back to the hotel to spill her secrets, but he stopped cold in the parking lot. He unclipped the Pokéball on him and spun to the building, raising his chin as he did. She cocked her head at him.

"What are you—"

"Koffing, use Tackle!" he hollered over her, tossing his Pokéball. The noxious Pokémon materialized on cue and launched itself in the direction Petrel's gaze was lingering, cannonballing right over Ari's gaze. A thud sounded off somewhere overhead, and she retreated back to the doors as letters from the firm's sign showered the pavement in pulverized flecks.

She smiled at the sight at her feet. She'd returned here to destroy her ties to this land and wipe her slate clean, and now he'd done it for her. Petrel. The man who delighted in her misdelight. What. The. Hell.

He recalled Koffing and sauntered back over to her, clapping imaginary dust from his hands as he stepped over his handiwork. He looked so obnoxiously proud of his good deed, bordering on punchable, but she let it slide. She owed him that, at least.

"It's as if the Phates never existed here," he bragged, stomping on the debris, but followed it up with a nasty laugh meant to downplay his kindness. "Now if only that worked back home."

She crossed her arms, glaring, but not too harshly. "You know, when you're not being an insufferable clown, you're actually somewhat tolerable."

He waggled purple brows. "Don't go soft on me now," he warned through a smile.

She returned the grin. "Never."

His head fell back on slumped shoulders as his gaze swept over the ramshackle grounds. "Such a waste of good office space though."

She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. "Maybe not," she murmured, an idea worming its way into her brain.

"Got something in mind?"

"Yes, actually," she said, smirking. "But first, how would you feel about helping me shred every last file with my family's name lying around inside?"

He planted his hands on his hips as if in challenge. "If there's one thing I enjoy more than tormenting you, it's tearing up important documents," he accepted.

* * *

Gio fished out the lighter and carton of smokes unceremoniously from his jacket. There was something mandatory about smoking on a hotel balcony. There was even an ocean for him to stare moodily out towards, a salty breeze to chop at his hair. The city bell tower jangled, signaling nightfall and sending Wingulls scattering. The sun dropped fast out of view, and the red and pink sky looked like someone had broken their head open on it.

If he craned his head back enough, he could see the first stars pricking through the darkness. He didn't like staring at them alone. Usually he had Delia or Tucker to share the sky with, keep him company and whisk him away from his own thoughts. He missed them. He missed Viridian City, for that matter. There was much less empty space in cities. _Real_ cities. More to distract himself with.

That's when he remembered the unlit cigarette in his hand. He popped it in his mouth, hit the lighter and held the flame to the tip. Then he stopped himself, remembering his promise to Delia. He'd already broken it while at sea, but maybe now was the time to right that wrong. If he could accomplish even one good thing on this trip, well, this was it.

He thumbed off the lighter and dropped the smoke back into the carton, sliding them both back in his jacket. Reaching into his back pants pocket, he pulled out the box of toothpicks Delia had packed for him. He slid one in the corner of his mouth, grinding it between his teeth and wincing at the new sensation. It would take some adjusting to, but then again, so would everything else on this damn mission.

He leaned his weight against balustrade, letting his eyes fall to the town square. He could still see all the flyers hanging on the building windows, and squinted when he came upon the one left by the reckless motorcyclist. He couldn't make it out at all from so high up. He wished he'd gone in for a closer look when he'd had the chance. Maybe some kids disappearing wasn't a big deal to Rufus or the rest of Team Rocket, but for Gio, it hit close to home. He remembered how quickly instinct had shoved him into motion when Tucker went missing in the Viridian Forest.

"Gio," Archer's voice called from inside, sundering his thoughts. "Have you decided on a room?"

Gio chewed on his toothpick some more, then turned back toward the room. When he stepped inside, Archer was unpacking, and Proto was flipping through channels on the television. The fact that the boy had returned from town without Rocco probably didn't bode well, but he knew the Scotsman could look after himself.

"I'll be taking this suite, if that meets with your approval," Archer said to Gio. "And Proton can have the one next door."

"Not until my TV gets fixed," Proton lipped back without looking away from the screen.

Archer ignored him. "The master suite a few floors up is available for you and Meowth, Gio."

"The missing children," Gio uttered without preamble, pointing his thumb behind him. "The ones on the flyers in central square. What do you think that's about?"

"Wouldn't surprise me if a Pokémon was responsible," Proto supplied in a bored tone. "Half the thrillers I've read are about Pokémon who hypnotize little kids and lure them into the wilderness, never to be seen again. Good stuff."

Gio frowned. "But those are just stories," he spoke around the toothpick in his mouth, before taking it out and looking Archer's way. "You don't think it could be other thugs?"

Proto yawned out an answer before Archer could. "Our client wouldn't bring us all the way here if he had thieves for hire available in his own backyard."

"You act as though he picked us out of a catalog," Gio snorted.

"Regardless," Archer cut in, holding up his palms, "I'm afraid we didn't come here to rescue missing children. With all respect, I'd like to think we're above collecting such a meager reward."

That earned a hard glare from Gio. "I think you mean beneath it," he muttered. "And I think you mean _you_ , not _we_."

Archer blinked at him. "Is there something we should discuss?"

Gio collected himself with difficulty, turning his head away stiffly and sticking the wooden pick back between his lips. He hadn't meant to lash out like that, nor show that side of himself to Archer. Legendaries, it was getting harder to leash, that ogre within.

"You are in command here," the Rocket agent reminded him. "Do you believe performing such a public service to be imperative to our mission?"

Gio opened his mouth to answer, but was abruptly headed off by Petrel and Ariana marching into the suite. "Ari and I sure didn't find any missing runts, but we did find the most perfect location to set up our operations," Petrel announced.

Archer spun to them, gobsmacked. "When? How?"

Petrel smirked haughtily at the Rocket. "Telling, isn't it? That the two of us found in one afternoon what your own scouts couldn't find for days?"

Ariana nudged Petrel aside to explain. "It's an abandoned building in the old industrial district. And we won't need permits or anything. I have... connections to the property's last owner."

Archer's brow creased. "Connections to whom?"

For a moment, Ariana looked blindsided, mouth opening and closing.

"Details," Petrel whined, coming to Ari's rescues and waving Archer off. "Who cares? The point is Team Righteous is officially ready to set up shop in Sinnoh! Right, Ari?"

She smiled tightly. "Yes. Well said."

"Then you have your alibi as well." Archer's gaze slid back to Gio. "No reason this building they've found can't be repurposed into, say, a parts and repair shop? As a business owner with money to invest, you wouldn't be scrutinized."

Gio chewed on his pick. "Without a garage, it'd be a hard sell," he warned.

The younger man nodded. "I'd laugh were it not true," he sighed, before shrugging. "No matter. We'll make it work."

Gio forced a nod, knowing he had to act a certain part right now. He managed a proud smile for Petrel and Aria. "Well done, both of you. I mean it. Turns out you can accomplish a lot when you get along and work together."

"It was a one-time thing," Ari dismissed with a hand wave. "I can't be expected to make him feel useful _all_ the time. Wouldn't want all those silly wigs and dresses of his to collect dust, now, would we?"

Petrel said nothing, just smiled as Ari strutted pompously out the door and down the hall to her suite. That Petrel would let her get the last word in floored Gio, and he fixed the taller man with a baffled look.

"No snarky comeback? Really?"

Petrel shrugged. "Oh, I let her have that one, bossman. She gets satisfaction from a man so infrequently."

"And he's back," Proto quipped from the bed.

Archer cleared his throat, moved to stand before Petrel. "Seeing as how Ariana isn't particularly fond of me either, I guess it falls to you to show me around this deserted property. I want to make sure it's thoroughly vetted before we proceed."

"Wait, hold up," Gio exclaimed before everyone could get ahead of themselves; this was all happening a bit too fast for him to stamp off on. "Shouldn't we... slow down?"

It was Petrel who reacted first. "Slow down?"

Gio nodded, grinding the toothpick between his teeth. "I'm glad you found a place, I really am," he lied, "but we're not even officially on assignment yet. I just… don't think we should commit to anything until we have all the mission details. We don't know how long we're going to be here for, or what the job is, or _who_ it is that's even hired us. Or if he's even worth doing business _with_."

"Ah, that reminds me. Rufus!" Archer called toward the hall. The door flung open the next instant and the gargantuan Rocket came barreling in. Archer appraised him with a chin tilt. "You have news?"

Rufus nodded. "Got word from headquarters," he reported. "The client and Madame Boss have been in contact again."

Archer hummed. "What are our instructions?"

"We're supposed to meet our guy across town at noon sharp tomorrow."

"Wonderful," Proto moaned. "More walking."

"Get over it," Gio scolded, before refocusing on Rufus. "The address?"

"A place called Ryker Tower," Rufus supplied, earning a sharp gasp from Petrel, of all people.

"Ryker?" the trickster choked, eyes wide, hands trembling. "As in, Titian? _The_ Ryker Titian?"

Titian. Again with that name. Gio grimaced.

Archer gave Petrel a baffled look. "Should we be impressed?"

"Should you be—" Frustration cut his reply short, and he waved flippantly at Archer and the rest of them as if he couldn't be bothered with them. "Uncultured swine, all of you! I'm almost embarrassed to be associated with you!"

"Feeling's mutual," Proto sounded off, if just to get words in.

"I know who Ryker is," Gio grumbled, not holding back. "I saw him on a television ad earlier. He's just some braggy entrepreneur telling folks what they want to hear. Who cares?"

"Then you didn't see enough, clearly," Petrel retorted, darting to the door and dragging in his suitcase from the hall. He crouched down and began frantically rifling through his things, sending wigs and articles of disguises flying behind him. "Ryker Titian is a very smart guy! A little ostentatious, granted, but even that's just part of his message! His first book made me realize how I'd been putting all these limitations on myself! I've listened to all his cassettes!"

His ransack ended with a book, and he rushed over to show it to Gio. Sure enough, the author on the cover was definitely the same man Gio had seen in the commercial earlier, luscious pink hair and all. "So he's a motivational speaker," he inferred, which seemed to align with how worked up that crowd had gotten.

"More than just that," Rufus chimed in with a deep bass. "I've been here a while. The guy's a celebrity. Half the buildings and power plants in Sinnoh? His company built them. Hell, he even built the Gym right here in Sunyshore. That's not to mention the Pokémon Centers he's renovated and the libraries and the—"

"Wow," Proto monotoned. "A life coach _and_ an architect."

"And a philanthropist," Rufus explained, pointing to Petrel's self-help book. "A while back, factories all over Sinnoh were shut down by order of the Military Government to prevent another Briskomy fiasco. But guess what? Titian Technologies steps in, and presto, energy crisis gone! Ryker stopped the recession here before it even began! He gave jobs to thousands of people who'd lost everything!"

Gio rolled the toothpick with his tongue, contemplating the facts. It certainly satisfied some of his lingering curiosities about the region's glowing welfare compared to Kanto and Johto, but not all of them.

"See what I mean?" Petrel gloating, flipping the pages of his book in Gio's face. "It's why he's called the 'Savior of Sinnoh'! Ryker is an inspiration, a god to his followers!"

"Then we should be careful not to land on his radar while we're here," Archer cautioned.

Proto heaved a sigh. "Try and avoid detection from the man who has a monopoly on almost all of Sinnoh? Sure, that'll be easy."

"I didn't say it would be easy," replied the Rocket agent. "And we'll have to be _especially_ cautious attending the meetup."

Rufus clicked his tongue discouragingly. "Eh, one problem, pals. I looked into it, and there's supposed to be some kind of public ceremony or seminar at the tower tomorrow."

The nerves crawled around Gio's stomach like Krabbys. "Lots of potential unwanted attention right off the bat," he gleaned under his breath.

Petrel's face turned pale white. "Wait. Ryker's holding a seminar right here in Sunyshore? I'll finally be able to meet him in person and have him autograph my custom-made Ryker Titian mask?"

"You'll do no such thing," Archer declared roundly. "Have you not been listening? We can't draw anyone's attention, especially not Ryker's. Plus, that's just creepy, quite frankly."

Rufus leaned in over Gio's ear. "Fanboys are just the worst," he remarked on Petrel, truly clueless to his own hypocrisy. "But I don't have to tell you, right, champ? You must be mobbed everywhere you go! Hey, if you ever need a bodyguard, I'm your man! That Irish guy you got watching your back? Only looking out for himself, I can tell!"

"He's Scottish," Gio bristled, the Rocket's bizarre man crush starting to irk him now.

"Really?" the giant bellowed. "Never been to Scottsdale myself. How about you? You've been to a lot of places, right? Where did you catch your Cloyster, by the way? Was it always a Cloyster? I caught a Shelder once! Well, technically, I stole it, but—"

Gio quieted him with a hand wave before the conversation could completely drive off a cliff. "How will we know how to identify our guy tomorrow, Rufus?"

"According to Agent Zephyr, he'll be wearing a blue, Kalosian tailored blazer," Rufus briefed.

Another sigh from Proto. "Fancy duds for a fancy client. Maybe Ryker's the guy."

"No way," Petrel rebuked as-a-matter-of-factly. "First off, Kalosian suits are nice, but not that nice. Ryker wears nothing but the best. That's part of his whole philosophy: if you think you deserve something, then seize it."

The slogan tugged at Gio's memory, but he shook it off. "I think we _deserve_ to be taken seriously. Whoever the client is, he can't be _that_ bright to wanna meet right out in the open. He paid for our hotel rooms, didn't he? So why not just do it here?"

"It's possible he doesn't trust us and felt it safer to meet in a public venue," Archer reasoned, stoking Gio's anger. It was just as he'd thought: Team Rocket was scum to those on the underworld's fringes. And now so was he, just by association. He was to be the scumbag face to this scumbag operation, and he was supposed to just roll over and take it.

Petrel snorted a laugh. "He's the one lurking in the shadows, but _he's_ afraid of _us_? What, does he think we're gonna cut his throat or something? People around here are so sheltered, I swear." He dropped to the floor again, diving back into his wardrobe. "Maybe if I put on an approachable, nerve-calming wig…"

Having heard enough, Gio tore the pick from his mouth and flicked it in the waste bin. "And here I thought we were gonna run into danger," he grumbled, facing the balcony again. "But maybe _we're_ the danger. Figures. Even the criminals here are too cultured for us. Don't want to do the dirty jobs themselves."

There was a long, tense silence, and Gio could feel their eyes burning a hole on the back of his head. He wasn't sure he cared though.

"We may not be much to look at," Archer admitted, ending the pause, "but we're not doormats either. We're Team Rocket."

Gio twisted sharply to him. " _You're_ Team Rocket," he said firmly, and hated that he had to keep repeating it. "I told you, I'm just here to do a job and to find my father! That was the deal I made with my mother! I'm only in this so that I can get _out_ of it!"

Archer watched him with those sharp, searching, teal eyes of his. "Is working alongside my division really so demeaning for you?"

Gio shook his head, huffing angrily. "That isn't what I meant, Archer. Don't try and make this an ego thing."

"The mission—"

"I know!" Gio hollered. "I know, the mission comes first! I've heard it a million times! Enough already!"

Another bout of silence, but Archer didn't let this one drag.

"Could we have the room?" With those words uttered, everyone fled for their lives into the corridor. Archer shut the door behind them, exhaled, then turned toward his friend with that look that made him feel like a child. "Gio—"

"I don't need a lecture," Gio growled, holding up his hand.

"I'm not lecturing you, I'm simply reporting the facts, as is my job as your deputy," the younger man clipped back, crossing the room. His eyes looked so serious; it was an expression that made Gio stop short. "You're in this now. Whether or not you hang up your uniform afterward is irrelevant. You can blame your mother for that, or Giuseppe, or even me. But right here, right now, your head needs to be in the game."

Gio frowned deeply, frustrated at the truth of the words. Archer was right though. He'd been looking for every excuse to sabotage this operation before it even began, hoping to save himself from feeling like an even bigger disgrace than he already did before coming here. He understood he needed his mother's resources to get things done, but even being affiliated with her empire at such a surface level chipped at his pride and poked at the beast inside he was so ashamed of.

"I know you may think yourself too noble for me and my men," Archer began again, and Gio snapped his head up in objection.

"I never said that—"

"But your mother put you in command for a reason," the agent continued over him. "You may not like those reasons, but so what? You and your gang don't have to enjoy associating with us. You don't have to think highly of me. You don't have to like being here no more than you have to like the needle of a flu shot. It's just something that needs to be done, so why make it harder than it has to be?"

"Archer," he rasped, defeat snagging at his voice. He wet his dry lips. "What if I do all this, and it ends up being for nothing?"

"It won't be for nothing." Archer's hand landed encouragingly on his arm to punctuate the promise, a fleeting touch more suited to a skittish Eevee than a grown man.

Gio breathed through his nostrils, looking down, away. "That's just what I thought when I was in the thick of it with Torino and the Rocket Empire. And somehow I'm worse off now than I was then."

"Worse off in whose eyes?"

Gio blinked at the question. There were so many names on his tongue, but he didn't have the wish to say them. Instead, he rolled his shoulders, straightened his spine, put on a tough face. Archer's pep talk had been a pain in the ass to listen to, but it was merited, and he felt a little better now that he'd gotten the steam out of his system. So, he was going to suck it up moving forward, keep his misgivings about Team Rocket to himself until their business in Sinnoh was concluded, not worry how it all appeared from the outside looking in. He'd said it himself back in Kanto; there was no room for error anymore, and that extended to him, too.

Once he was calm and recalibrated, he nodded at Archer and steeled his voice, all business again. "Let's get that location Ari gave us cleaned up first thing tomorrow. We need to show our client we're in this for the long haul."

Archer returned the nod. "It will be done," he said.

Gio started toward the door, eager to get up to his room and put this day behind him. He stopped as he reached for the handle though, because he still needed to clear the air about one last thing. "Archer," he said, twisting halfway on his heel.

The agent furrowed a brow. "Yes, my friend?"

"For the record, I don't think lowly of you," he clarified, offering a smile that carried all the apology needed.

The agent smiled back. "Nor I you."

With that, Gio left the room and began walking the hallway to the elevators. "This is going to take a little longer than I expected, dad," he murmured under his breath. "Just give me time."

* * *

As soon as the first glow of moonlight trickled into his cabin, Tucker wasted no time. He nudged Cubone awake and rolled out of his bunk, the creaky floorboards protesting underfoot. He grabbed his packed bag, toed his shoes on, and double-checked that the lockpick was safe in his pocket. The clock in his ears was ticking away, igniting his bones with adrenaline. He'd been mentally rehearsing for this since the sundown, and wasn't about to let Marco down.

He ushered Cubone to the corner of the room and pried the grate off the dorade vent nestled there. "The navigation room is right above us," he whispered to his Pokémon. "Head straight for it, okay? I'll meet you on the other side."

Cubone saluted with his club, then squeezed himself into the vent and shimmied up. The shaft rattled around the Pokémon's movement, higher and higher, and Tucker waited for the sound to become a distant echo before setting back to work. He tiptoed out the door, into the corridor. The way to the main deck looked clear, so he slowly, quietly charted a path.

He came an inch from the stairs when something in the air changed. The hairs on his neck tingled, and that pesky sixth sense reared its unwelcome head again. It was different this time, though, because it usually only ever kicked in moments before danger or abrupt movement. This time the sensation felt drawn out, colder, like icy tendrils whispering across his skin.

He didn't move a muscle, just waited for a sign, listening with more than just his ears until his gut dragged his gaze back down the length of the corridor. It stretched endlessly into darkness, yet he knew it had to lead somewhere. He'd never been down that way before, but a voice in his skull was telling him that time was now, and he didn't know why. He could have pushed past whatever this feeling was, but that voice soon became a scream, a siren so loud he couldn't focus.

His feet twisted underneath him before he'd even committed to the action, and now he was walking back down the passageway, past his cabin, into the jaws of darkness without fear to stop him. He suddenly became plugged into the ship, aware of every vibration, every noise, every smattering of waves against the hull, every creak of old wood, every booted footfall above. And the coldness—turning arctic with each step.

He saw ahead through the darkness, not needing his eyes. The corridor stopped abruptly just ahead, a dead end.

 _No_ , his senses hounded him. _Keep going._

He knelt to the floor, feeling around with his hands. Something was beneath him, in the very bowels of the ship. He could vaguely make out the shape in his mind, but it was definitely there, and it was big. The floorboards in front of him rattled as one beneath his touch; a secret hatch, he realized. He located the handle in the shadows and pulled up.

Not even thinking about it, he dropped through the hole, landing clumsily on a tough, slanted surface. A light flickered in the musty darkness across the bilge, and he found his footing before continuing onward. Here the cold struck him like a blow of a fist, and he shuddered. The shape ahead was clearer, at least, and it was definitely something that didn't belong with the rest of the ship—metallic, synthetic, unnatural. The closer he drew to it, the louder his pulse throbbed in his ears.

Then the flickering from the old, swinging lamp above stabilized, spotlighting a massive heap of something covered by a tarp. The chill in his bones suddenly lifted, the voice in his head quieted, the tingling sensations gone. He couldn't feel the ship's vibrations anymore. It was as if a lightswitch had turned off inside him, and he wasn't sure how to turn it back on.

Swallowing hard, he reached forward and yanked the cover off the object in one sweep movement. He didn't know what he was looking at at first, but it was metal, bulky, with a curved length that balanced on a pair of tank treads instead of wheels. He ran his fingers over the cold, rusting armor. It hadn't been used in a while, whatever the machine was. And it looked heavy—any heavier and it would sink the ship.

Maybe a tank?

No, he realized slowly as he came around the front of the contraption and saw the massive drill built into its face. This was a mobile weapon. A combat vehicle. One he recognized.

"Torino," he inhaled sharply, startling even himself by uttering it.

"Lost your way, little boy?"

Tucker whipped his head around at the playful but lethal voice. Drucilla slowly moved out of the shadows and into the light, the floor squeaking a warning at Tucker under her boots.

"Or perhaps you took a wrong turn?" she taunted. "I guess Marco should have walked you through his brilliant plan again."

He tried to get words out, but they fell in his throat as she approached. His heart thumped like mad in his chest, as if trying to break out and get away before she could reach him. Legendaries, how had he screwed up so bad? He should never have come down this way, should have stuck to Marco's plan instead of walking into the lion's den like an idiot. And because of what? A feeling?

"Little boys really shouldn't be awake at this wicked hour," she sneered, her smile slipping. "Don't you agree, Ninetales?"

Tucker drew his eyes to a new shape emerging beside the pirate. The Pokémon's eyes shimmered a bright mesmeric blue in the darkness. He tried to tear his gaze away, but quickly felt sleep stealing up on him. He had all of a few seconds before his senses dulled to connect the dots; the drill, the secrets, why her name had sounded so familiar to him when Marco first uttered it.

And then it clicked into place.

"Crissela," he slurred out her true identity like a curse, wobbling on his feet as his vision blurred. Her manic laughter rang in his ears, and he threw out a lazy punch, missing his mark in the hazy colors. Her cold fingers pressed gently on his temple, and his balance slipped, the world falling away until his dreams snatched him from his drop.

 **TO BE CONTINUED . . .**

* * *

 **Next Chapter:** Tucker and Marco must fight for their lives to escape Crissela and her remnant forces.


End file.
